


Walpurgisnacht

by Atypical16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Albeit lots of it, Angst, Coming of Age, Daddy Issues, Dark Magic, F/M, Hogwarts, Horcruxes, Internalized Homophobia, Knights of Walpurgis, M/M, Manipulation, Mild Sexual Content, POV Multiple, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships, fluff if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-01-31 22:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: Both Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy have a fancy they shouldn’t be entertaining, but reason has left the castle. Meanwhile, Tom Riddle continues on his journey to power and immortality, happy to stir up some ruckus along the way.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Avery Sr., Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s), Walburga Black/Tom Riddle
Comments: 31
Kudos: 23





	1. Psychosocial

Part I: Fall 1943

September the first and it was hotter and swampier than a hippogriff’s arse. Walburga Black had spent a full hour in front of her Venetian mirror only to have her makeup start melting off as soon as she stepped foot outside.

“Let’s go, it’s nearly half-eight!” Her mother, Irma, stood on the pavement, shrieking and making a general fool of herself. “Cygnus! Where is your trunk?”

“Kreacher has gone off somewhere,” came her brother’s obnoxious voice through the open door from the foyer of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. “Can one of you levitate it out here? I’d like to keep my robes scuff-free.” 

“Walburga, go help your brother,” Irma sighed. “Make it quick and don’t you dare App—”

Walburga was already gone, squeezing through tiny particles until she was wobbling on her heels in Cygnus’ bedroom. No way in hell was she traipsing up the stairs like a muggle idiot in those.

She held out her manicured hands for balance as the room filled with whistles, smacking of lips, and “hey, handsome!” Then it cut sharply off as the posters of females—both witch and mermaid—realized it was she and not her brother. 

Walburga spared a glance around, wrinkling her nose in disgust, before her eyes fell on Cygnus’ trunk. It was open, his neatly-folded robes and stacked textbooks on display. All the doing of Kreacher, the house-elf, of course—Cygnus didn’t know how to fold a handkerchief. Walburga slammed the trunk closed and pulled out her willow and thestral-hair wand. _Wingardium Leviosa!_

The trunk rose and hovered a neat six inches off the ground. She waved her wand and sent it out the door, throwing one last look of contempt at a particularly slender mermaid giggling and splashing in crystal-blue water.

No sooner than Walburga had stepped foot into the corridor, Cygnus barked from the bottom of the stairs, “Oi, Walburga, what’s taking you so long?”

“So sorry, your highness,” she replied in a sickly-sweet voice, feeling her temper rise. “Here, let me speed it up.” With a sharp flick of her wand, she sent the trunk zooming down the stairs.

Cygnus stood frozen dumb for a moment, jumping away just a second too late as the trunk crashed into his chest, knocking him to the floor. A loud “oof!” filled the corridor along with the _thump _of his rear connecting with the creaking wood.

Walburga opened her mouth and let out a raucous _hah-hah-hah_, stretching her cheeks with the first grin she’d had in weeks. Not much fun to be had in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.

“You sodding shrew!” Cygnus howled, jumping to his feet and smoothing down his robes.

Clomping down the stairs, Walburga thought of a response to add insult to injury, but then Irma’s heels advanced and she appeared in the archway of the foyer a second later, foaming at the mouth. “For heaven’s sake, Walburga! Are you a pureblood witch or a monkey playing with a stick?”

“The latter,” mumbled Cygnus as he walked out, wincing and guiding his trunk. 

“You could’ve seriously injured him! Just what was going on in that empty head of yours?” 

“Alright, Mother, don’t have a cow,” Walburga snapped, rolling her eyes. She pushed past Irma and headed to her own trunk, next to her younger brother Alphard’s. He stood nearby, simply gazing around Grimmauld Place until a sleek black Ministry car pulled up to the curb.

“Oh, there they are—POLLUX!” Irma screeched, causing all three of her children to cringe. “Where on Earth is he? You lot get in the car _now_.”

The passenger-side door opened and their uncle, Arcturus, stepped out, solemn-faced as usual. “Greetings, children. Reginald will collect your trunks into the car. Please have a seat alongside Lucretia and Orion.” 

As if on cue, the driver’s side door swung open, revealing a stout man with a pointed mustache and top hat. “Yes, I will take care of the trunks, Sir Black.”

Irma came back outside, huffing and puffing. “…and that damned house-elf has cleared off somewhere, right when we need it…” Her tight-lipped husband, Pollux, ignored her and slammed the front door so hard the brass doorknocker and windows rattled. Apparently, Irma had given him an earful in the parlor.

Hurrying to get away from her parents, Walburga clasped onto the car door handle and pulled it open. “Hello, Walburga,” her cousin, Lucretia, called cheerfully as she climbed in and slid her rear next to hers. “You look quite lovely. As do you, Cygnus and Alphard.” 

“Mm,” Walburga said, not in the mood to exchange pleasantries. Especially with Cygnus’ stupid leg nearly crushing hers. “D’you think you can move over?”

“Not a chance, dear sister,” he replied in a sing-song, further grating her nerves. 

Thankfully, it was a short ride to King’s Cross, since the Ministry car could weave through the muggle traffic. Walburga assumed Reginald would simply deposit them in front of King’s Cross, but he accompanied them to Platform 9¾ to help load the trunks onto the Hogwarts Express.

The sight of the train was rather welcoming to her after a long, dull summer stuck with her family. Though she was of-age and free to Apparate wherever she pleased—well, behind Irma’s back—she had nowhere to go.

The Blacks had arrived late, so the goodbyes were hurried. Cygnus went first, of course smothered in hugs from Irma and words of encouragement regarding OWLs from Pollux. Alphard got a condensed version of that, and then it was Walburga’s turn. She did not expect any encouragement about NEWTs, for her parents couldn’t give less of a damn about her academic performance. Instead, she received lectures from both of her parents, outlining their expectations of her in great detail. 

“Walburga, it is _imperative _that you find a wizard worthy of continuing the Black bloodline _this year,” _Irma hissed in a low voice. “You shouldn’t even be attending Hogwarts anymore but because you can’t grasp simple concepts, such as how to be a proper witch, here we are. My patience is wearing thin.”

This was Walburga’s cue to pretend she cared, so she nodded her head and said in a monotone, “Yes, Mother.”

Pollux was more pragmatic: “Things will not work in your favor if I have to travel to Hogwarts to explain away your embarrassing behavior. Keep your place, Walburga.”

She was saved from having to form a response by the loud train whistle, signaling her to get moving. “Goodbye, Mother and Father,” she called over her shoulder. Relief of finally getting away from them swelled in her chest before she heard Irma’s reply. 

“Oh, and you’d do well to slim down your figure a bit!”

Fortunately, there weren’t many people still on the platform, but the remark was nonetheless mortifying, enhanced by Felix Lestrange saddling up beside her and winking. “Don’t worry, Wally-girl. I think your figure’s just swell.”

Scowling, Walburga stomped onto the train, deciding it wasn’t worth whipping out her wand.

A group of tiny little swots convened near the front compartments fell silent and huddled closer together upon seeing her coming. She glared hard at each of their sniveling faces as she passed, nose turned up. She felt like she’d make a good warrior, since almost everyone cowered in her presence. Though that was likely more attributed to her reputation.

After a few minutes of walking around like a dolt, peering into frosted windows, Walburga finally found the compartment occupied by the upper-year Slytherin girls. She slid open the door and stepped through, feeling the air change as they, too, fell silent and stared at her. 

“Ah, there you are, Wally!” Lucretia called, smiling. “Come sit here!”

Walburga cringed internally and took a seat, directing another hard glare into Aurelia Parkinson’s murky, pond-scum-colored eyes. The witches were arranged in a certain order in accordance with the pureblood hierarchy: Next to the window were the heiresses of the most pristine bloodlines, Druella Rosier and Lucretia Black, who everyone preferred leagues more than Walburga. She and Parkinson came next, and after them were Beryl Fawley and Semele Selwyn. Selwyn’s two cousins, the Messier sisters, sat next to her, and beyond that Walburga didn’t care to know their names. 

Not a single damn one of them liked Walburga, but of course they were going to tolerate her if only for Lucretia and their family name. 

Lucretia—they were all supposed to be listening to her recent vacation in the south of France. Since Walburga had not been invited due to her near-expulsion last academic year, by default a disgrace to her family, she tuned it out. 

Everyone else was enraptured, of course. Lucretia was the prettier, more charismatic Black heiress. Tall, slim, with sleek black hair, she resembled a French fashion model. Conversely, Walburga looked like a slightly chubbier Alice in Wonderland except with dark, narrowed eyes. She wanted to hate Lucretia, but she was so bloody _sweet, _even to her wayward cousin no one liked, that it was rather hard to hate her.

_It is imperative that you find a wizard…_Irma’s annoying voice rang over and over in Walburga’s mind as her eyes strayed out the window to the passing countryside. Lucretia would have no problem finding a husband, but Walburga was a different story. Her reputation wasn’t exactly stellar, and her blood status could only excuse so much. 

I _must _get it together this year, she vowed to herself, not wanting to imagine being thrown into adulthood without a husband or the family’s gold. _I must, I must, I must… _

✧

Like the start of every other school year on the Hogwarts Express, Professor Slughorn had gathered his group of upper-year elites, who he called the Slug Club, in his compartment around a large, wooden table. Horrible name aside, it was this gathering of wizards that would get Tom Riddle to the top, where he belonged.

The boys were arranged by year, the seventh-years closest to Slughorn. And the food, which did not go unnoticed by Tom after a diet of pea soup at Wool’s all summer. On either side of the rotund professor were Felix Lestrange and Abraxas Malfoy, his ultimate favorites, but Tom had been bumped up quite a few seats. Now he sat on Malfoy’s left, between him and James Avery. The Black cousins, all three of them staring off with dull eyes and blank minds—save for Alphard, the youngest, they really weren’t that bright—sat across the table in front of butterbeer mugs and a plate of treacle tarts.

Slughorn was talking, relentlessly talking, and Tom felt his own mind wandering to the wondrous events of the summer, the highlights puncturing extreme, intense boredom at Wool’s. The ultimate highlight was, of course, obtaining the treasure that would hopefully become his second horcrux, depending how far he could push the boundaries of magic.

He twirled the onyx ring on his right hand, noticing Avery glancing at it out of the corner of his eye, likely wondering where he’d gotten it. None of his business, as far as Tom was concerned; he’d already proven his descent from Salazar Slytherin. Avery didn’t need the whole damn history. 

And now, this sweet summer to add. The ring was particularly significant, for it signified the stepping stone from boy to man. Other boys, wizard and muggle alike, considered themselves men just by thrusting into some silly slag, but that was why they were little boys still. Not Tom.

Briefly, he tuned into Slughorn’s one-sided conversation to ensure he wasn’t missing anything of value. Not even remotely so: he was speaking to the obnoxious fourth-year Felix Murdoch about the Floo Network disruption last month, for the boy’s father was head of the department. Of course, Herbert Murdoch knew sod all how to handle it, but his precious boy sure tried to convince the group that it was all under control.

Back to that hot summer evening, when Tom had finally pulled the Trace from his body and Apparated to a village called Little Hangleton that might’ve been charming if its two most well-known inhabitants weren’t pure scum. 

The first was his inbred uncle, Marvolo Gaunt, owner of the onyx ring. The man had been sitting in his filthy cabin in a dumb, drunk stupor, and yet he’d been useful, directing him to that worthless waste of air Riddle and relinquishing his wand, although not voluntarily.

Another dip into the present—Slughorn was now speaking about the Holyhead Harpies, nothing worth paying attention to—and back to one of Tom’s fondest memories. The manor house upon the hill, the initial anger at how his filthy muggle father was living in extravagance while his powerful wizard of a son was crouching in an orphanage during the air-raids—

No, enough thinking about Wool’s, he scolded himself. _You will come of age in four months and never have to return there. _He should burn it to the ground for good measure.

Next to him, the left-handed Avery lifted his mug at the same time as Tom, bumping into his elbow and spilling a splash of butterbeer onto his lap. You’d think the fool would’ve learned to control his anomaly by now, Tom thought, but he couldn’t be too irritated, for the flash of fear in the boy’s eyes was worth the spot of damp on his leg.

“So sorry, mate,” Avery whispered urgently. “Here, let me…” He reached for his handkerchief, but Tom held up a hand, dabbing his own against his lap. 

“Not to worry, James. We’ll be changing into our Hogwarts robes soon.” 

“Ah, yes, reckon we should do that now, as it’s getting dark already,” said Lestrange, breaking an apparent lull in the conversation as Slughorn stuffed his face with treacle tarts. “What do you think?”

He directed the question at Tom rather than Slughorn, who also waited along with the others for an answer. Tom shrugged carelessly and nodded.

The last compartment on the right was empty and waiting for them, since everyone knew it was usually reserved for the Slytherin boys. While changing into their Hogwarts robes, they fell into discussion about which witches had grown more attractive over the summer.

“Mate, did you see Fawley?”

“The older Messier’s looking fine this year.”

“A bit too peckish for my taste. Rosier is something else, though.” 

“Rosier’s mine, fool. Try Parkinson.” 

“Eurgh, no thanks. I’d rather have a hippogriff.”

The conversation only grew even duller, so Tom revisited the manor atop the grassy hill, stark against the moonlight, the door swinging open easily, quietly, because of course the muggle idiots didn’t lock it. The long corridor of portraits depicting the muggle bloodline he was about to sever. _Riddle. _One day, he would no longer be Riddle.

_Who are you? _That was real fear, the sweetest because Tom had craved it since the moment he’d realized his father was still alive.

_Goodbye, Father_. The burst of green light had been so strong, so controlled despite the foreign wand. All fueled by Tom’s magical ability. He’d departed right after, leaving them limp and dead on their velvet sofas.

“Lestrange, did you end up going to Versailles?” Malfoy asked, glancing at Tom out of the side of his eye. Now they were going to recount their luxurious holidays, knowing he couldn’t relate. _Go on, dolts, enjoy the last little bit of power you’ve got left._

“Nah, mate, we went to Iceland instead. Blimey, it’s beautiful over there. Not hot like here, and at night, these green waves of light start up in the sky! Not too frequent this time of year, unfortunately, but at least I saw them once…”

Tom didn’t care how extravagant their vacations were. While the others were looking at the northern lights and girls’ arses, he was making himself immortal. One thing his shit life had taught him thus far was that true value couldn’t be bought with status or gold.

In fact, he thought, turning to the window where the sun was sinking behind the sloping hills, green light filling his head, his own _Avada Kedavra _echoing in his ears—in fact, he’d had the best holiday out of all of them.

✦

While Felix Lestrange prattled on about how amazing Iceland is, with its cool breezes and 24-hour days, Abraxas Malfoy fought hard to keep his eyes off the bloke sitting next to Lestrange by the name of James Avery. 

Abraxas knew he was the one who’d gone to Versailles—he knew quite a bit about Avery through his own doing—but he was prompting him to talk. Except Avery didn’t speak unless it was absolutely necessary, and now with Lestrange taking over the conversation, all hope was lost for the rest of the train ride and possibly the whole evening. The pompous bloke loved the sound of his own voice.

Next to him sat Tom Riddle, who had gone from scapegoat to leader of the elite seemingly overnight. There had been a reason, of course. Abraxas tried not to shudder as he recalled the cold, dark chamber, low hissing, and rumbling of stone as the beast advanced… The Malfoys were not far from Salazar Slytherin themselves, but Abraxas was perfectly fine not being the true heir.

Riddle was also not listening to the conversation, staring out the window. Not exactly a surprise, since he’d been stuck in Muggle London all summer, so he had no holiday tales to tell. Plus, sometimes he fell into this quiet trance; the others knew not to disturb him when he was like this.

Abraxas was glad to have him out of the way, for Riddle was sharp, picking up everything when he was engaged. Now Abraxas could let his eyes stay to the one person he couldn’t get out of his head all summer. 

Tall, dark-haired, with a scowlish mouth and grey-green eyes, Avery would likely land himself on the cover of _Witch Weekly _one day in the near future. Generally, the wizards featured had to be a productive member of society in addition to being handsome, but the Avery family was so wealthy and well-known, their eldest heir could go on a murder spree and still have witches flocking to him upon stepping foot in Diagon Alley. 

The best part was that Avery was not interested in them. Not if the gathering at the Rosier Manor last month was any indication. 

Concentrating on keeping his eyes on his knees, hoping like hell his face wouldn’t flush, Abraxas brought up the memory of that party. Countless times he’d gone over it since then, but the strength of its effect hadn’t diminished a bit.

The Rosiers’ manor was on an absurdly large plot of land, which had a patio and its own small lake. Around this, the Rosiers’ 12 or so house-elves arranged a feast on large, round tables. As usual, the gang of Slytherin boys—minus Lestrange, who was in Iceland, and Riddle, who was not answering owls—convened at one of the tables. Abraxas had been seated next to Avery.

He’d sort of been eyeing the other boy for the past year, but he would never act upon his fancy; that was a great way to ruin the Malfoy legacy in less than a day. Besides that, it was clear Avery wasn’t interested in anyone, since he’d never acted like it—until that evening.

Everyone had been drinking firewhiskey and Abraxas, woozy and hot, excused himself to go for a walk and clear his head. He’d gotten pissed too fast and did not want to do anything embarrassing. Anywhere outside would’ve caught attention, so he’d gone inside the Rosiers’ house and Avery had found him in the dining hall, plucking a treacle tart from a porcelain plate and taking a bite. _Oi, still hungry, mate?_

Abraxas had only chuckled, unable to meet his eyes, but Avery was much more forward: _I’ve seen your eyes on me quite a bit tonight. _A smirk on those pretty lips, a touch of the hand. _Don’t be shy. _

Then their mouths were connecting and the older boy’s hands were around Abraxas’ waist and all was right for the first time in a long while. But Avery had ended it, without a word since.

This year, Abraxas vowed to himself, hell, this _week_, I’m going to get him— 

“Oi, Lestrange, enough already!” barked Cygnus Black suddenly, cutting through the best part of Abraxas’ memory. He blinked and found himself back in the compartment on the Hogwarts Express. 

Cygnus was glowering at Lestrange, while his cousin, Orion, blinked sleepily and wiped a thin stream of drool from his chin with the sleeve of his robes. Riddle was also back in the compartment, watching and listening. 

Abraxas snuck a glance at Avery, but the other was looking at Felix Murdoch, who was poking his head between the glass doors in search of the trolley. “Hello, madam?” he was calling. “I’d really, really like a chocolate frog!”

“No one cares,” someone called back from down the aisle.

“Murdoch, for Merlin’s sake, we’ll be at Hogwarts in five minutes,” Victor Mulciber said. 

“Yes, sit down and shut up,” added Icarus Yaxley, the rudest, most egotistical fourth-year Abraxas had ever encountered.

Mulciber was right: the train stopped a little over five minutes later. As soon as it came to a complete stop, Tom Riddle got to his feet and stalked out of the compartment as if he couldn’t stand the group for another second. Abraxas, to prevent himself from watching Avery, stuck to Riddle’s heels as they hauled their trunks and left the train, beating the chaotic mass of students.

Outside was no more organized, since it was pitch dark and the Hogwarts groundskeeper was nowhere to be found. Someone stumbled into Abraxas, sending his knees slamming into his trunk. Wincing in pain, he took a step back and nearly knocked over a first-year.

“_Lumos_,” he grumbled, finally upright and clasping his wand, swiveling the trunk behind him. Then he faced forward and collided with Riddle standing rigid in front of him.

“I’m so sor—” he began, but Riddle cut him off without a trace of rancor. 

“Abraxas, do you notice something different about the horse-less carriages this year?”

“No,” Abraxas replied slowly, giving the carriages a hard look. They appeared the same as they had for the past five years: old wood about to fall apart, guided by their own wheels and reins hovering in front of them, empty.

He glanced at Riddle, wondering if the elder was giving some type of test that Abraxas was obviously failing. But all Riddle said was, “Let’s get on the carriages before they fill up.”

They left their trunks in the growing pile, where the groundskeeper finally showed up, and walked to a half-empty carriage. Just as Abraxas was about to climb on, someone bumped shoulders with him—Avery.

“Sorry, mate,” Avery said tonelessly before stepping ahead onto the carriage after Riddle, leaving Abraxas slightly wounded. Why did Avery have to be so bloody stoic _all _the time? 

Enough, he scolded himself, stop being such a little girl. After him the rest of the boys piled in, making for a hectic few minutes as they all situated themselves. Murdoch and Yaxley, the fourth-years, were left behind, which no one was particularly fussed about. 

The sight of the castle, a vast, black silhouette against the night sky, lifted Abraxas’ spirits, but that was nothing compared to their journey across the Black Lake when Avery sat right next to him and surreptitiously squeezed his hand.

Abraxas glanced at him, astonished, and the other boy gave him a small wink before gazing out over the unnervingly dark lake. A jolt of something—need, desire, excitement—stirred in Abraxas’ stomach, reaching between his legs. He wanted Avery to touch him again and he wouldn’t, but at least their legs were pressed together. Good enough.

Before they stood to exit the carriage, Abraxas sent his vow silently to the back of Avery’s smooth, dark-haired head: _This year, I will have you…_


	2. Dramamine

Since James Avery was in his seventh year and Abraxas in his fifth, there weren’t that many opportunities for them to see each other outside of the Great Hall and common room, where they were always accompanied by at least two other Slytherin boys. Thus, their interactions were reduced to the gang activity, which Abraxas really didn’t care for, if he was honest.

Avery seemed to enjoy them. While the boy barely spoke to anyone outside the Slytherin group, he obviously felt quite comfortable around them. Therefore, Abraxas tried his best to convince himself that he enjoyed their shenanigans.

Then came an evening in mid-September. Most of the gang was stressed from either OWL or NEWT schedules except for the two sixth-years, Tom Riddle and James Avery. Riddle was nowhere to be found on this day, so it was likely Avery’s idea to “initiate” the first-years into Slytherin House. Though Cygnus Black was also a prefect, he didn’t hesitate to carry out the first part of the plan, “inviting” the two most promising of them for a “walk.”

Meanwhile, the rest of the older-years—Abraxas, Avery, Orion Black, Mulciber, Lestrange, and an odd exception, Icarus Yaxley—stood in a black-hooded circle somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. From what Abraxas could see, they were not far from the lake, but the shore was not near the castle. Escape would be difficult. _Escape from what? _He had no answer, but his stomach was whirring uneasily.

“Oi, Mulciber,” Lestrange said a few minutes after they’d gotten into formation. “Which type of creatures you reckon lurk around here?”

“I’ve no idea, mate.”

“I heard there are unicorns,” Orion Black offered, but as usual, everyone ignored him.

“Who’re you going to marry?” Lestrange asked Mulciber as if that was related to the previous topic.

Mulciber frowned and shook his head. “Not looking to get married now.”

“Oh, right, I forgot how you lesser blood do it…”

Abraxas tuned out the rest of the conversation and tried to meet Avery’s eyes. He was successful only once. The late-afternoon sun shone into the other’s eyes, causing him to squint. Still, it felt like he was avoiding Abraxas’ gaze, which he seemed to be doing more often lately.

“Alright, that’s him,” said Mulciber, pointing between the trees to his right, where a tall hooded figure flanked by two smaller ones were approaching. “You lot remember what to do, yes?”

The rest nodded in unison as the three boys came closer. Even from afar, Cygnus Black’s pompous voice was audible, prattling on about his family connections. Abraxas knew his game: he was reminding them of his influence to intimidate them. He was no stranger to that, though he wasn’t fond of its use in this case.

_“Portus,” _Lestrange muttered, pointing his wand at his watch. A glowed a brief flash of blue but otherwise didn’t move.

“Ah, here we are,” Cygnus announced, bringing the pair into the circle of Slytherins. “Gentlemen, meet Brody Fawley and Homer Travers. Their bloodlines are pure, but they must prove that they belong in Slytherin House.” He addressed the pair of first-years, who were looking rather regretful at the moment. “It is not enough to have pure blood. Also required are cunning, ambition, and loyalty. Have you two all of those?”

“Yes,” the boys squeaked automatically.

“We’ll see about that. _Incarcerous!”_

A single thick, black rope shot out of Cygnus’ wand and wrapped itself around the boys’ wrists. They both gasped as it tightened around their forearms, jerking them closer together.

“We will see you in the common room, then,” he told them, smirking. “Felix, is it ready?”

“It is,” Lestrange replied, taking off the watch and holding it out.

“Good luck, ickle first-years,” Icarus Yaxley threw in snidely as they gathered around the watch. A few seconds later, Abraxas felt a tug behind his navel and then his surroundings were spinning at dizzying speed, intensifying the nausea building in his stomach. Finally, their feet were on the ground, all except for Orion Black’s, which gave out from under him and sent him sprawling on the lawn.

“Smooth, Black,” Lestrange remarked while Orion hastily jumped to his feet, grinning, and made a show of brushing his shoulders off. Something else had caught Lestrange’s eye, a female figure walking along the shore of the lake.

“Oi, Wally-girl! Come have a drink with us in the common room!”

“Sod off,” was her dull reply, sent over her shoulder without turning around.

Someone brushed against Abraxas’ arm on his other side. He turned and, with a flutter in his chest, recognized Avery’s profile under the hood in the rapidly fading light.

“Oi, Avery,” Abraxas said quietly. “Are we going to fetch them after sundown?”

“No,” said Avery dismissively without even looking at him.

The fluttering now extended to Abraxas’ stomach, bringing back the unease. “But what if they don’t return?”

Avery merely shrugged. “Not my problem.” He strode ahead, catching up with the two other seventh-years before Abraxas could say another word. Apparently, Lestrange had goaded Walburga Black too far, for she began to berate him, her brother, and her cousin:

“For Merlin’s sake, Lestrange, for a pureblood, you act rather like a muggle. And you two—the two biggest disgraces to the Noble House of Black, I’ll say.”

“Shut your mouth, _shrew_,” Cygnus snarled. Avery stopped to join in on the fun, but Abraxas decided to keep going to the castle, hoping Avery would notice and call him back. Much to Abraxas’ disappointment, he did not, so with a heavy heart, he retreated to the fifth-year dormitory to read a book, attempting to keep his mind off Avery’s cold treatment.

About two hours into it, someone stumbled into the dormitory, shuffling around just outside Abraxas’ drawn bed hangings. Assuming it was one of the Blacks, he continued to read until that someone pulled the curtain sharply back.

To his astonishment, James Avery stood next to the bed, peering down at Abraxas with a playful smirk. “What are you doing here all by your lonesome, Abraxas?”

Heart lifting, Abraxas lifted the book in response, trying not to grin like a fool. Though he was still rankled by Avery’s earlier treatment, he gladly soaked in his undivided attention, especially when he sat down on the bed and examined the book cover.

“_Treasures of the Last Amazonian Kingdom? _Where’d you get this, stole it from a second-year?”

Abraxas let out a _heh_ and placed the book on the bedside table. He didn’t really want to discuss his love of fantasy-adventure novels with any of his mates, let along the sophisticated, seemingly older-than-17 Avery.

“What are you—why aren’t you with the others?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound accusing.

Avery shrugged. “Lestrange and Mulciber have gone to hunt the castle in search of Riddle and the Blacks are in the common room getting pissed as usual. Say, your lover is down there, clamoring for your attention.”

Abraxas frowned, nonplussed, for his lover was seated right in front of him. “Who’s that?”

“Why, the older Messier sister, of course. Isn’t it she you fancy?”

“Mm,” said Abraxas noncommittally. While Ananke Messier was certainly very pretty and rather intelligent as well, he definitely did not prefer her company over Avery’s. He stared at the boy’s hand, noticing the silver ring with the Avery family crest and thinking of Tom Riddle’s similar one, which had appeared out of nowhere with the vague explanation of being “passed through Slytherin’s purest bloodline.”

“Mulciber likes the younger one,” Avery added after a brief silence.

Abraxas opened his mouth, unsure of what Avery was referring to, but then it ceased to matter because Avery’s hand adorned with the ring was lifting, reaching toward Abraxas’ face and flicking a stray lock from his forehead. Abraxas shivered at the touch and lowered his eyes, feeling his heart pick up.

When he mustered enough courage to raise them again, he found Avery’s face only inches away. Hot firewhiskey-tinged breath filled his nose and then their lips met, Avery’s hand curled around the back of Abraxas’ neck.

_Finally, finally, finally! _Closing his eyes, Abraxas resisted the urge to seize Avery’s shoulders and pull him closer, resting a hand on his arm. Just as his body sagged and his mind shut off, allowing him to revel in the soft, oddly tender kiss, slurred calling traveled from somewhere in the passageway leading to the common room.

“Oi, Avery, Malfoy! Are you in here or what?”

Avery abruptly pulled away and stood up, leaving Abraxas slightly dizzy. Not a second later, a swaying Cygnus Black appeared in the doorway. “What are you two doing here? Riddle’s back!”

Without a glance at Abraxas, Avery nodded and walked out. “Did the ickle firsties ever return?”

“Nope,” Cygnus laughed before turning to Abraxas. “You coming then, mate?”

With reluctance, Abraxas climbed off his bed and followed them to the common room. He personally didn’t care whether Riddle was back but greeting Riddle from wherever was now an unspoken rule. How the boy had amassed so much authority and reverence overnight, Abraxas hadn’t an idea. However, it wasn’t very important at the moment, not with the trace of Avery’s lips against his. Even when the target of his fancy continued to ignore him for the rest of the night, that trace kept Abraxas floating in low clouds.

✧

Something odd was going on: as far as Walburga could see, there wasn’t a single upper-year Slytherin girl in the castle.

After supper, which had proceeded as normal, she went for a walk by the lake. Then Cygnus and his ridiculous mates—Walburga privately referred to them as Riddle’s Arse-Kissers—appeared out of literally nowhere and heckled her. Thus, she went inside in search of Lucretia, but Lucretia was nowhere to be found, so Walburga resorted to tracking down the other swots.

They weren’t to be found, either. She checked each dormitory, but they appeared empty, only silence greeting her ear against the doors. What on Earth was going on and why was she not a part of it?

Not wanting to catch the blokes on their way in, Walburga left the Slytherin chambers, heading to the library. The only thing these witches studied was their appearance in the mirror, but Walburga was out of better ideas.

No luck there, so the next step was the Great Hall. On her way, she spotted a bit of fortune in the form of a first-year Slytherin girl, Something Rowle.

“Hello, dear,” Walburga greeted in her best imitation of kind. Since she hadn’t many examples of that, it came off as forced. Fine—intimidation worked just as well. “Can you kindly let me know where the other Slytherin ladies have gone?”

“Oh, erm…” The girl stood dumbly for a moment. Then she came to her senses and waved Walburga forward. “Yes, right this way.”

Walburga followed the girl to the fourth floor. At the end of a long, winding corridor was a portrait of Salazar Slytherin’s daughter, Madeira. “Lady Slytherin,” said the Rowle girl, clasping her hands and inclining her head. “We are descended from the pure bloodlines Rowle and Black.”

Madeira surveyed Walburga with cold hazel eyes. The young girl could not be called pretty, yet there was a certain allure to her. After a minute, she raised a dainty, gloved hand and the door swung open.

Inside an airy room with large windows facing the lake sat every upper-year Slytherin girl around a table draped in white lace. In front of each were china cups filled with tea from two large, hand-painted kettles with different colors and designs. Yet they seemed to go together, along with the cool blue-tinged white petals of the flowers.

“Ah, dear Walburga,” Lucretia called, looking quite guilty. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Welcome to the annual pureblood witches’ gathering!”

Though Lucretia’s smile was genuine, she was lying through her teeth. Walburga fantasized about striding over there and hissing a slew of insults. As appealing as it was, she couldn’t actually do it. Instead, she kept her face blank and addressed her cousin calmly. “Lucretia, dear, I require a quick word.”

“Of course, cousin.” She shot a winning smile at the cohort, though the enthusiastic façade was slipping. “I’ll be but a moment, ladies.”

She paused just outside the door as it closed, but Walburga was not going to speak freely in front of that portrait. She gripped Lucretia’s slender arm and led her to the main corridor. “How long has this been going on?”

“Erm…” Lucretia had the same unease as the Rowle girl. “A couple of years.”

“A couple of _years_? And you didn’t think to ever mention it to me?”

Lucretia winced, knowing Walburga wouldn’t accept any excuses. “Listen…the other girls had asked me not to.”

Despite her efforts to suppress it, Walburga felt her temper shooting up like hot mercury. “And you are loyal to them over me? What kind of Noble Black descendant are you?”

“Listen,” Lucretia repeated, sharper this time; she was the only one who dared challenge Walburga. “Part of being a Noble Lady Black means maintaining connection with other pureblood elites. And besides,” she added quickly before Walburga could object, “you hate these types of gatherings, do you not? Besides, you haven’t missed much—all they talk about are Slytherin blokes and they’re all prats if you ask me.”

Walburga had no argument for that, so she jumped on the preceding statement. “Lucretia, _I _am a Black and therefore, my presence is required at these meetings.”

“So you would like to return to this one, then?”

Looking away, Walburga bit her lip to prevent herself from saying she had no choice. Lucretia was right; she didn’t like these swotty gatherings and didn’t get on with any of these girls. But hell if she was going to let them blatantly exclude her—for years! “Come, let’s go back.”

Walburga’s shoulders straightened, her chest slightly protruding as she strode back down the corridor. The portrait, still glaring at her, swung open without a word and let them back in.

The witches around the table had been chatting amicably, falling silent as the pair took their seats. An extra chair was conjured, a cup of tea poured for Walburga, though the distaste at her presence was palpable.

The opinions of these swots are not important, she reminded herself as she sipped her tea and pretended to listen. That was technically the truth, but repeating it over and over was not abating the sting of rejection. How could girls like the Messier sisters with their muggle-tinged lineage be preferable to a Noble Black? _Impertinent, unimportant…_

Yet even after the dull affair, through which Walburga sat silent and scowling, the sting lingered in her chest, turning sour the taste in her mouth. The top pureblood witches were socialites, and that came so much more naturally to Lucretia than her. Social standing was the only thing that trumped blood status—as evidenced strongly in the case of Tom Riddle—and obviously, Walburga was rubbish at maintaining it.

✦

_“Rennervate.”_

The slender, dark-haired witch tied to the chair lifted her head, scrunching up her face and blinking hard. Her reddened eyes fell first on Tom, grew wide, and scanned the room. “What—?”

“Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty,” Tom sneered. “Have a nice rest?”

“What the—what are you doing, Tom?” she spluttered, tiny chest heaving. “Where am I?”

“Welcome to the Room of Hidden Things,” Tom told her, gesturing with a lazy hand around the room. They were surrounded by heaps of random objects in a space only Tom could access, tucked away on the seventh floor.

Rather than look around again, Semele Selwyn examined herself. Apart from the restraints, she was unhurt, dressed exactly as Tom had found her. The fun had not yet begun.

“That’s swell,” she said, her usual haughtiness returning, “but I’ve got prior arrangements, so let me go, please.”

Tom chuckled and stroked her cheek. “Aren’t you cute, sweetheart.”

As predicted, she grew angry, jerking away from his touch. “Let me go, Riddle! Why are you doing this?”

_“Let me go, Riddle,” _he mimicked in her girlish whine, loving her fury and fear. “Still ornery and mouthy, even when you’re at your most vulnerable.”

He dragged out those last two words, cupping her chin and tilting her head up to look into her large, dark eyes, growing rounder with each second.

“What do you want from me?” Then, in a much less certain tone, she added, “I’ve got galleons.”

“No, you mean Daddy’s got galleons,” Tom corrected her, releasing her chin and dipping his hand to her chest, toying with the top button of her blouse. “You, my dear, haven’t got much more than a pretty face and a prissy attitude.”

As if proving his point, the girl pouted and huffed, “Well, at least I’m pure. More than I can say for you.”

“Don’t you tire of the same banal insults?” Idly, he pushed the button through its hole, undoing the blouse. “It wasn’t clever the first time and it certainly isn’t now."

“Don’t…” She shifted, ducking her head. In response, he undid the rest of the buttons, yanking open her blouse and revealing a plain white bra over small, pale breasts.

“Well, aren’t we a late developer,” he pointed out cheerfully.

A growl escaped her throat as she attempted to move her legs, bound by the ankles to the chair. “How _dare _you touch me in such a manner, Tom Riddle! I wouldn’t consider you if you were the last wizard on Earth, with your arrogance and unworthy blood!”

Almost as a reflex, Tom leaned up and slapped her round the face. She let out a satisfying yelp as her head swung, a lock of dark hair tumbling over her chest.

“Darling Semele,” Tom said as if she was one of the younger, rowdier children at Wool’s. “If you get mouthy with me again, I will bend you over and do the same to your arse. Would you like that?”

She shook her head, her breaths coming out in rapid bursts. “What…have I done?”

“Ah, there you are,” Tom taunted as he slid her skirt up her smooth legs. “Smart girl. Are you recalling the time little princess Selwyn’s ego got the best of her?”

He stepped back, capturing her eyes and driving into her mind. She was indeed recalling her little mishap right after Transfiguration the previous Thursday.

_Hey Semele_, said Lysandra Bell, a know-it-all Ravenclaw prefect. _Why do you reckon Professor Dumbledore has it out for Tom Riddle?_

_If I had to guess, it’s because he’s posing as pure when everyone knows he’s just a random orphan. _

Bell had looked around and spotted Tom, nudging Selwyn. _He’s right there and he’s looking! I think he heard us… _

_I don’t care_, was the girl’s cool response. _Even you are above him, Bell. Now if you’ll excuse me, my actual friends are waiting._

Tom stepped toward Semele until he was inches away, gazing down at her with a well-kept neutral expression. By now she was trembling, eyes sparkling with tears. “Please—I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Tom.”

“Hurt you? Why would I do that, when you’re so much fun to play with? Not bad to look at, either.” He dragged his eyes slowly over her exposed torso, watching her squirm and shrink away.

“Please don’t…take me in that way,” she whispered, tears leaking down her cheeks.

Tom chuckled, stroking her cheek once more. “I won’t, darling, don’t worry.”

She instantly sagged, closing her eyes and sighing in relief.

“Instead, soon you’ll be begging me to take you in ‘that way.’”

The dark eyes snapped open, but he was already walking away, inhaling the sweet scent of her dread and bewilderment. Almost as an afterthought, he pointed his wand at her, causing her to wince, and conjured the ropes back into it. Without another word, he left the Room of Hidden Things.

He took his time strolling through the castle, high from the harnessed, rare power. No need to rush—it would take a few minutes for Semele Selwyn to move her legs again and the gathering of his lackeys in the common room was not going anywhere. Not without him.


	3. Vicarious

History of Magic lesson was generally the time of day when Tom let himself daydream for a full hour uninterrupted. About nothing absurd, of course—only his immense power now and in the future. There was nothing wrong with a bit of imagination when it helped work out practical matters.

Though the majority of the class openly slept during Professor Binns’ droning, Tom preferred to at least look like he was following along. As soon as he was seated between Mulciber and Lestrange, he took out his textbook—brand-new this year, thanks to the Lestranges—and flipped to the page written on the blackboard. While doing so, he glanced down and saw a peculiar section title:

_Walpurgis Night: When Magical Beings Roam Free_

With nothing better to do at the moment, Tom began to read the section. Funnily enough, the festivity had been named after St Walburga, a young Frankish abbess in the eighth century. He suppressed a snort—the Walburga he knew was far from a saint. He pictured the ever-scowling witch, pretty but about as pleasant as spattergroit.

_Once a year, sorcery is carried out with multitudes of glory, blazing a path through the night and from the ashes a new order rises. _According to the book, this was primarily carried out in Germany, hence why Tom had never heard of it.

_From the ashes a new order rises… _Growth by destruction, control of the chaos. _Walpurgis Night… _The words replayed over and over in Tom’s head. When the lesson ended, they still pervaded but slightly altered: _Walpurgis Knights, Knights of Walpurgis_, Knights of magical havoc… Perfect.

Now the next step was to find a place in the castle to gather them up. The Slytherin common room was out, for he didn’t trust every single Slytherin, especially not the gossiping girls and childish younger-years. The Room of Hidden Things was also out, for he didn’t want to reveal how to access the room. Another Hogwarts secret, all to himself. He had to make adequate use of his prefect rounds to find a good spot.

Two nights later, Tom struck gold in an obscure fifth-floor corridor. He’d been scouting, rounds scroll tucked under his arm, when he noticed sixth-year Sean Dennehy of Gryffindor prowling around, guilt etched into his pointed freckled face. Rather than accost him and demand his destination, Tom backed up into the shadows and let him pass.

When Dennehy turned the corner, Tom followed, sticking to the stone wall. The torches grew fewer and farther in between until the squeak of a heavy door opened up ahead. A second later, a soft _thud _reached his ears.

Without further ado, Tom strode up to the door and swung it open, catching Dennehy mouth-to-mouth with a younger-year Gryffindor girl. The pair immediately broke apart, stammering and fussing with their clothing. However, Tom was more concerned with the vast room they were standing in. It appeared to be an abandoned meeting place with high windows out of reach, casting moonlight onto a large, wooden table and chairs.

Meanwhile, the pair of Gryffindors stood there like dolts, watching them. “Get back to Gryffindor Tower,” he said, waving a hand to dismiss them. “And I’d better not see you anywhere near this room again.”

He walked out without a backward glance; he couldn’t care less what they got up to in that room now so long as they heeded his advice and never returned.

Another part of Hogwarts claimed—one day, he’d have the whole castle.

Now it was time to closely acquaint himself with his Knights. The next night was a Friday, so at breakfast, Tom told Mulciber and Lestrange to pass the message around the upper-year boys: meet in the common room at half-ten. And because everyone obeyed Tom Riddle, there they all were at half-ten in the common room.

The Heads were both wandering around, Confunded, so they would miss the boys’ journey to the newly-discovered room on the fifth floor. Once he’d ushered everyone in, Tom sealed the door and cast a ward over the room. The boys arranged themselves around the table, leaving the seat at the head empty.

The only caveat was the Hogwarts uniform, giving away their juvenile status. They had to be _wizards_, draped in cloaks and hoods, marching as one. Too hasty, he chided himself, enough jumping into childish fantasy.

Slowly, he lowered himself into the high-backed chair, rehearsing the speech one last time in his head. In the last second, he decided it was rubbish, jettisoned it, and opened his mouth to improvise. Every word had to count.

“Gentlemen…”

✦

Seated next to Cygnus Black and across from James Avery, Abraxas stared at the oak table, oddly polished and sleek in this old, dusty room. At the head of the table, Tom Riddle began to speak.

“Gentlemen, I have requested for you to join me here for a reason: I would like to propose an idea.”

Everyone besides Abraxas was listening avidly even though they, too, kept their heads inclined. Despite Riddle’s handsome face and smooth tone, there was something about the bloke that repelled eye contact.

This was not Abraxas’ main concern. Worry that had nothing to do with Riddle clutched at his chest. When Cygnus Black had told him about the meeting, he’d requested a word afterward. There is not a chance he could know, Abraxas assured himself, not a bloody chance… Yet he felt the boy’s glances out of the side of his dark eyes, sliding over him and ahead to Avery as if looking for clues of something in between them.

You’re being paranoid, Abraxas reassured himself, but the dread lessened not even a modicum.

“…take back our rightful place at the top of wizarding society. We alone have Salazar Slytherin’s noble blood flowing through us, with the advantage of superior magical capability…”

But there was that time Cygnus may have seen them, Abraxas remembered with a sharp twist in his gut. Walking back from the greenhouses up the grassy hill, side-by-side. Avery had turned and given him a brief, playful smirk, perhaps conveying desire to be somewhere alone with him. Whatever it had meant, it’d brought a surge of arousal mixed with euphoria within Abraxas. Just as he moved his hand ever-so-slightly to the left to brush it against Avery’s, Cygnus Black had appeared behind them seemingly out of nowhere.

How much had he seen—or picked up on, just by the air?

“…which is why I propose that we fight our way through like knights, saving a race foolish enough to run into the arms of its greatest threat. Gentlemen, muggles use their fists and machines to solve what we wizards can do with our minds and wands. It will not be difficult to show them where they belong if we move with subtlety.”

None of them knew what Riddle was going on about—did they ever?—but they were sure to pretend they did. However, Riddle was far from thick and so picked up on their ignorance right away.

“I’ve got a few plans…but they cannot be carried out yet. Let’s meet here again shortly, shall we?”

They nodded in unison, grateful for him not putting any of them in the spotlight. The ball of dread in Abraxas’ stomach tightened more with each step back to the common room. To try and take his mind off it, he wondered where the Heads were, but he didn’t remotely care. What would Cygnus say? The boy was right behind him and Abraxas could almost feel his accusatory breath on the back of his neck.

“Come, let’s go to the dormitory,” he muttered to Abraxas as soon as they were in the common room, tugging on the sleeve of his robes.

Now that they were away from the group, Abraxas’ ears rang from the silence, feeling like a whole chocolate frog was in his throat.

“Listen,” Cygnus said quietly, seated on the edge of the bed. He gestured to Orion’s bed across from him. “I’ve got a question and I hope you’ll answer me honestly.”

Clutching his thighs with sweaty palms, Abraxas took a seat and nodded. He’d have to lie for both his and Avery’s sake, but Abraxas wasn’t the greatest liar and Cygnus would know right away—

“Would you ever…consider taking my sister’s hand in marriage?”

“Your—what?” Abraxas squawked.

Just as Cygnus opened his mouth to repeat the question, it sank in. Abraxas cleared his throat and asked, “You want me to marry Walburga?”

“When the time is right,” Cygnus said quickly. “You know, when you’re of age and in the Ministry.”

Abraxas tried to keep the frown off his face, but the topic was too bizarre. Cygnus had orchestrated this secret meeting to discuss Walburga? “Won’t she be beyond the age to marry by then?”

Now it was Cygnus’ turn to shift uncomfortably. “Well, perhaps, but exceptions could be made if the pair is well-suited for each other.”

“Cygnus, mate…” Abraxas paused, trying to think of the kindest way to phrase the rejection. “D’you really think Walburga and I are well-suited for each other?”

Cygnus let out a breath and rubbed his temples. “I see your point, but I’m afraid no one on Earth is well-suited for her. I’ve asked Lestrange, Avery, and Mulciber, and they all shared your sentiment.” His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Well, except Mulciber was a right arse about it.”

“He fancies little girls anyway,” Abraxas consoled, echoing talk among the other Slytherins. He was quite relieved Avery had said no and even more relieved that Avery was not the topic of this conversation. “Listen, mate. Walburga’s a smart girl, she’ll find someone eventually. What do you reckon about this ‘Knight’ business? Is Riddle the leader or what?”

The diversion worked, for Cygnus much preferred to talk about Riddle than his sister. “Dunno. I say we follow his lead, though, since he’s quite dedicated to restoring order to this heap of rubbish we call wizarding society.”

With that, he clapped Abraxas on the back and left him alone in the dormitory to ponder. Now that the dread had dissipated, Abraxas was free to reflect upon that odd meeting. He couldn’t understand why they were expected to follow Riddle like sheep to their shepherd. The bloke was descended directly from Slytherin, sure, but even that could’ve been rubbish, the chamber an orchestration to deceive. None of them had actually seen the beast after all; Riddle could’ve invented it and all that hissing. None of them spoke Parseltongue—

His thoughts were cut off yet again when he took two steps into the passageway to the common room and spotted a shadowed figure under the torch, leaning against the wall. It straightened up and approached Abraxas, the firelight passing over the handsome face of James Avery.

Abraxas’ heart leapt until he saw the scowl and narrowed eyes. He racked his mind to see why Avery would be cross with him and came up with nothing.

“How’s it going?” he asked, his voice cracking horribly over the last word. _What are you, 12 years old? _

“Was about to ask you the same,” Avery said coolly, folding his arms over his chest. “What took you so long in there with him?”

“Huh?” Abraxas blurted, nonplussed. “D’you mean in that room with Riddle?”

“Come off it,” the other snapped. “I know what you were trying to do in there with Black. I’m not stupid like you, little boy.”

“With Black?” Abraxas echoed, the insult bouncing off him for the time being. “We weren’t doing sod, mate! He asked me if I could take his sister’s hand.” He let out an odd, yelp-like chuckle as if to point out how silly the misunderstanding was.

Avery was not having it. He scoffed and turned away. “Why I waste my time with you, I’ll never know.”

“James, please—” Abraxas reached for him, but Avery shoved past him, ignoring his plea. Why? What on Earth had he done wrong? The urge to chase after Avery was overwhelming, the idea of his anger unbearable…yet here he was.

Logic won out—Avery was best left alone tonight. With a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders, Abraxas continued on to the common room, where all the blokes—the Knights, if they were adopting Riddle’s allegory—were congregated around the dying fire, passing around a bottle of firewhiskey from Merlin-knew-where. Unsurprisingly, Riddle had cleared off.

“Oi, Abraxas,” Cygnus Black called, patting the seat next to him. “Sit down, mate. You look like you’re in a right state.”

“Did you blackmail him into marrying Walburga?” Mulciber cracked to shouts of laughter.

“Shut up already, Mulciber…”

Abraxas wasn’t keen on sitting next to Cygnus Black after Avery’s accusation. If he returned to the common room, his suspicion would be more or less confirmed. Unfortunately, Abraxas had already skived off a gathering not two weeks into term, and he had a status to maintain.

As a result, he was forced to take a seat and listen in on the slightly-slurred conversation, which was, of course, about witches. Time to pretend his main objective was to get some witch into bed instead of Avery like he wanted…and may never have again. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Abraxas fake-laughed at Mulciber’s crude remarks. His own façade centered on Ananke Messier as usual, though the most appealing thing she could do for him in bed was change the sheets.

All the while, his stomach churned and his mind ruminated over Avery’s harsh words and cold glare. To drown it out, he gulped down a burning swallow of firewhiskey every time the bottle was passed to him, knowing it was futile, that he would not sleep that night.

✧

Walburga could swear up and down her innocence, but it was unlikely Headmaster Dippet would believe it. Not with Professor Merrythought marching her to his office, seething with rage.

Galatea Merrythought, the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Walburga did not care for each other, starting when the former realized the latter could actually use magic for its intended purpose, to manipulate and control. Walburga, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the professor’s regard of her, except for now when her fate was in her hands.

“Good evening, Armando,” Merrythought greeted frostily once they were both in his office, under not only his scrutiny but that of the several hundred past headmasters.

“Good evening, Galatea,” old Dippet said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Merrythought let out a dramatic sigh, gesturing to Walburga, who felt like if she sat in the chair, she would submit to the punishment they wanted to bestow upon her. “Well, it’s Miss Black again. She hexed a fellow student with some type of skin-stretching curse. The poor dear has to remain in the Hospital Wing for days, wrapped up like a mummy! I ask, Armando, is this proper behavior of a Hogwarts witch?”

“Indeed not,” said Dippet, turning his gaze to Walburga. “Please have a seat, Miss…”

“Black,” Merrythought supplied as Walburga slowly lowered herself into the small, wooden chair.

“Yes, Miss Black. Ah, but there are two of those in their seventh year, yes? What’s your given name, dear?”

_Lucretia_, Walburga considered saying for a fleeting moment, but Merrythought would’ve pounced before the name left her mouth. Assuming Walburga could even open her mouth in the first place, with her saliva congealed around her teeth.

Fortunately, Horace Slughorn, head of Slytherin House, appeared, saving her the necessity of a response. “So sorry for the delay—caught that Murdoch stringing up a first-year by his ankles… Anyway, what’s happened?”

His eyes fell on Walburga and the unusually solemn expression on his round face suggested he already knew.

“Horace, I’m sorry, but this one’s got to go,” Merrythought told him, eyebrows slanted up in fake-rue, like she hadn’t wanted Walburga gone since her very first Defense lesson at Hogwarts.

“Now Galatea, I’m afraid I must argue against that. Walburga is quite proficient in her lessons, is she not?”

“That’s in favor of my argument, Horace,” said the old toad. “She’s demonstrated proficiency and earned enough OWLs to conclude her education.”

A horrible second passed with the three of them, plus all those damn portraits, surveying her like she was a dead animal with salvageable meat on her bones to pick.

“Horace.” Merrythought’s voice was gentle now, persuasive. “She’s a pretty young witch from a high-status family. She’ll find a wizard in no time if she…” _Starts behaving. _The unspoken words hung in the air.

Rankled, Walburga wondered why it was always up to _her _to behave. Bethesda Turney hadn’t been behaving in Defense when she snickered at Walburga’s robes tearing and referred to her as “the mental blonde one” of the pair of Black cousins. It was not Walburga’s fault the awful wench didn’t keep her mouth shut.

Rather than say this, she had a bout of rare self-restraint and kept quiet. She thought for sure Merrythought had Slughorn convinced with the witches-play-nice rubbish, but then, blessedly, he shook his head.

“Walburga is of age now, and whether she wants to continue her education is her choice, _provided_she never does something like this again and apologizes to Miss Turney. What do you say, Armando?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dippet, clearly relieved that the decision was made for him. “Please behave yourself, Miss Black.”

“Now wait just a blue minute,” Merrythought jumped in. “Are we not going to punish Miss Black at all?”

“Ah, but I think that is best left to your discretion, Galatea,” Slughorn replied smoothly. “I shall not begrudge you the loss of house points.”

“Certainly not,” Merrythought answered in a huff. She turned to Walburga. “Fifty points from Slytherin and detention each Sunday this month at nine o’clock sharp. And if I hear you haven’t apologized to Miss Turney by this Friday, make that another month.”

“And I must send an owl to your parents,” Dippet added.

“Swell,” Walburga muttered before she could stop herself, earning her three hard glares.

Finally, she was dismissed from that circle of hell. The task of finding a husband was significantly more urgent: Pollux Black would probably curse her right on the platform of King’s Cross after hearing about this. Urgent and more difficult to carry out, if the students caught wind of who put Bethesda Turney in the Hospital Wing.

She deserved it, Walburga told herself over and over, descending stairways and marching through corridors until she reached the Slytherin dungeons. The common room was not empty like she’d hoped, but no one was gawping at her, so that was a good sign.

Glancing over her shoulder at the boys convened around the fire, she nearly slammed into the two girls approaching her: Aurelia Parkinson and Semele Selwyn, identical in manner but vastly different in appearance. The former was large and brute, the latter small and delicate.

Expecting them to either ignore or admonish her, Walburga was caught by surprise when Parkinson spoke.

“Heard you put that Turney girl in her place. Well done.”

Walburga turned to Selwyn as if looking for confirmation, but the girl was not paying attention, eyes unfocused. Normally scathing with her nose turned up, Selwyn had been unusually subdued lately. This was a welcome change for Walburga; one less prissy witch she had to appeal to.

“Thank you,” she told Parkinson. Without another word, she continued on to the dormitory, the bathtub her ultimate destination. Her heart lifted high in her chest, to where it was when she’d uttered the incantation of the skin-stretching curse, aiming it straight at Bethesda Turney.

_She deserved it_. Walburga had not a drop of remorse. Let the stupid Howler come and the boys talk. She would not be sorry.


	4. What It's Like

By the next week, everyone in the castle and probably Hogsmeade as well knew of Walburga’s hex. As predicted, much of the response was negative at first, but the Slytherins seemed ambivalent. Unfortunately, one of her brothers was an exception.

After her first detention, spanning the whole Sunday in which Walburga was made to polish dirty, old artifacts with only a washrag, Cygnus pounced on her as soon as he spotted her creeping the perimeter of the common room on her way back to the dormitory.

“Dear Walburga, may I have a word?” In contrast to his calm voice, his dark eyes were boring into her skull.

“Well, I’ve got to—”

_Finish my Transfiguration essay _were supposed to be her next words, but they were cut off by him snatching her arm. “Come, let’s take a walk.”

Walburga sighed and let him drag her out into the corridor. The confrontation was inevitable; best just to get it out of the way. He stopped and released her arm a few paces deeper into the dungeons, where there were only empty chambers with dusty chains on the floors from centuries past, when punishment was a bit harsher. Brother and sister stood in front of the metal-grid gate, simply sizing each other up. Then Cygnus broke the silence.

“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking, Walburga? Are you _trying _to demolish our status?”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Cygnus. This is not a Greek tragedy. The girl will be out of the Hospital Wing good as new.”

“That’s not the point and you damn well know it,” Cygnus snapped. “You are making yourself look like a raging beast. Little wonder Lestrange refers to you as the shrew. You’re exactly like that mental broad in Shakespeare’s play, even worse so.”

Walburga’s hand twitched, aching to fly to her pocket and pull out her wand. Oh, what satisfaction it would bring! However, she didn’t want to prove Cygnus and Lestrange right. “I don’t give a single toss what Lestrange thinks,” she informed him, hoping that would end the conversation.

No such luck. “You should care,” he replied quietly, bringing her back around to face him. “You underestimate the importance of his opinion of you. There is a reason why Father told you to return to Hogwarts and be on your best behavior—to secure your status as worthy of a Sacred 28 wizard.”

Walburga opened her mouth to retort, but he held up a hand and continued, his voice dropping a few degrees. “You’ve not done as you were told. In fact, you’ve done the complete opposite. You’ve scared off every single prospective suitor and tarnished your reputation—none of the Slytherin boys with noble lineage even less than ours will consider taking your hand.”

“Rubbish,” Walburga accused. “You can’t speak for all of them.”

“Yes, I can, because I’ve asked all of them and every single one has rejected you.”

“You—what?” Walburga sputtered, feeling her face grow hot. “Why would you do such a thing? What in the _hell _is wrong with you, Cygnus?” She blinked and found her arm extended, wand clutched tightly in her fist.

In negotiation stance, Cygnus held his hands up, a grimace tugging on his mouth. His usual annoyance was gone, replaced by something Walburga couldn’t decipher. “Look, Father asked me to help you find a husband and you aren’t exactly making yourself appear available.”

“I’m not available!” she shouted, her voice echoing around the corridor, but she didn’t care. Hot tears sprang to her eyes, shame filled her chest, and her mind jumped to an ugly memory from the previous summer. She, her parents, Cygnus, Alphard, Orion, and Lucretia had gone to Ricciardello’s High-End Restaurant. Pollux, after many goblets of wine, had been oddly talkative, a pleasant change until his remarks about Lucretia’s slim figure hovered just above profoundly creepy. Worse yet, she was held as the ideal for Walburga’s not-so-slim figure. _If only Walburga knew how to uphold what we have bestowed upon her, both in appearance and grace. _

“Honestly, Walburga,” Cygnus huffed, already impatient with her outburst. “You’ve got one duty: to be a noble, proud wife of the Sacred 28. For shit’s sake, we all own house-elves—how hard could it be to sit and look pretty? You could start by closing your mouth and setting down the fork.”

“You’d like to talk about nobility, then?” Her voice, she was pleased to note, had lowered from shrill to cold and cutting, her strongest preference. “How noble are you and all the prats you wish for me to marry, when you lot rally around that half-blood orphan, kissing his arse with begging lips?”

Now Cygnus was the one overcome with fury. “Bite your tongue, Walburga,” he hissed, stepping toward her.

She stood with her head high, lips pursed, refusing to step back. “Even you can’t justify it, can you, Cygnus? Tom Riddle is a half-blood, who grew up _muggle _in some filthy orphanage. He’s obviously touched in his lice-covered head, and the whole lot of you simply worship him! For Merlin’s sake, Cygnus, why? Have you ever once asked yourself why?”

She leaned in until her face was a breath away from his, white and twisted in rage. He was visibly refraining from striking her, but Merlin, did it feel so good to goad him, to blurt everything she found wrong with this exchange of power. “I know why, dear brother. Because all the others are doing it and you can’t even use your precious status to point out the obvious. You’re a coward, Cygnus.”

Though she’d been expecting it, the sudden sting of his palm across her face took her by surprise. Letting out an involuntary squeak, she ducked her head and cupped her swollen cheek.

“You _dare _speak to me in such a manner?” Cygnus was snarling. “Learn your place, witch.”

Walburga, unbothered, didn’t deign him a response. Instead, she sent him her biggest smirk, despite half her face smarting, and turned her back on him. The slap didn’t bother her—Pollux had doled out enough to render them meaningless—nor did the glare of Cygnus’ narrowed eyes through the back of her skull, nor the humiliation of being propositioned to every older-year Slytherin boy behind her back. Because it was _her _words that mattered most. They were true, every one of them, and not even pompous Cygnus could argue them.

Her elation lasted a mere eight hours. The next morning at breakfast, Walburga took a seat next to Lucretia and half-listened to the usual droll about which blokes were interested in whom. Though she was not included in the conversation, since none fancied her, Walburga sensed an air of acceptance for the first time this term.

Halfway through her cup of tea, she heard the fluttering of wings overhead and glanced up. Against the ceiling of the Great Hall mimicking a cloudless sky, owls flew toward select students with envelopes clasped in their beaks. Luna, the Blacks’ glossy white owl, was headed toward the table with a plain white envelope.

Since it wasn’t red and smoking, Walburga instantly relaxed and turned back to her eggs and bacon, assuming it was for one of her brothers. However, Luna dropped the letter onto the table in front of her and flew back out the high window.

With a tentative hand, Walburga picked up the envelope and inspected it. The return address was indeed her parents’ but the handwriting was not her mother’s script. Sharp, perfectly even letters spelled out her name.

If Pollux was taking time out of his day to write to her personally, it was likely just as bad as a Howler, but at least it offered her privacy. Excusing herself to the loo, Walburga tucked the envelope into her robes and left the Great Hall.

Ever since the body of that wretched little mudblood girl had been found dead within its walls, the students avoided the first-floor girls’ lavatory. This afforded the opportunity for Walburga to read the letter without a nose sticking into her business. Hands slightly shaking, much to her chagrin, she pulled out the letter and opened it:

_Dear daughter, _

_The headmaster has written to inform us that you have been misbehaving yet again. I am not going to waste ink telling an of-age pureblood witch what she already ought to know. However, I would like you to know that I seethe as I write this, for I cannot understand how your mother and I have been misfortuned with such a disgrace for a daughter. It is ever so obvious why not one wizard wants to take your hand. Your self-control is nonexistent, your manners are atrocious, and your figure resembles that of a sow. Fix yourself proper within these last few months of your pointless education or I shall no longer consider you my daughter, and thus your fortune as a Noble Black heiress will come to a swift end. Then, defiant little girl, you will understand reality. _

_Father_

Before the words had sunk in, Walburga was twisting and crumpling the parchment with trembling hands, tears burning her eyes. But she would not cry here. That awful girl, Myrtle, had died here whilst crying and Walburga was rather superstitious about things like that.

She kicked open the stall door and hurled the crumpled ball into the toilet. With her foot, she slammed into the handle, watching the water swallow the letter and disappear. Its destination was the lake, where the ink would wash away and the parchment would disintegrate. But the words would remain embedded in Walburga’s skin.

Thankfully, everyone was still finishing breakfast in the Great Hall, so the corridors were empty. Walburga had no appetite and even less desire to see another human soul. She marched straight to the dormitory, slipped her half-finished essay and textbook for her first class, Transfiguration, into her bag and sat down on her bed. Only then did she let herself cry.

✧

The first Quidditch game of the 1943-1944 school year fell on an unusually blustery Sunday, though that did not dampen the high spirits, especially when Slytherin beat Ravenclaw 10-1. The prominent champion was fourth-year Icarus Yaxley, who sent three bludgers across the entire pitch into one of the goal hoops.

Abraxas didn’t care much for Quidditch, but he was grateful for the chance to stand next to Avery with their shoulders touching. Though Avery didn’t speak a single word to him, he didn’t move away and leave him cold, a good sign.

Later that afternoon, the elder-year boys hijacked the common room and got ahold of a bottle of firewhiskey. The witches and younger-years obediently trickled out, knowing they were subject to Mulciber’s harassment. Riddle was once again mysteriously absent, allowing the boys to grow boisterous.

Instead of hiding away with a book like his body was asking to, Abraxas decided to join in the drinking, since that was what facilitated the encounter with Avery over the summer. And oddly, he was feeling lucky.

Already slightly wobbly, Abraxas joined Lestrange, Mulciber, and the Black cousins at the round table. He glanced at Avery, who was sitting awfully close to that Yaxley boy and refilling his goblet every few minutes, or so it seemed. Suddenly, Abraxas was not feeling so lucky anymore.

“Yes, I’ve asked him,” Cygnus told him, causing him to startle. Abraxas caught himself just in time and looked at the other questioningly. “Avery,” he added, his eyes falling to his hand of cards. “He looks rather like a sissy with that Yaxley bloke, but I suppose I can’t judge.”

Abraxas felt his cheeks flush a horrid pink, willing his eyes to keep away from his left, where Avery sat. Fortunately, no one was paying him any attention, too wrapped up in the game. The cards had small, topless mermaids wrapped around the numbers, winking and blowing kisses. No doubt they were Mulciber’s. Abraxas’ hand wasn’t too great, but he couldn’t care less. _Why _was Avery paying so much attention to this little arrogant boy whilst Abraxas sat here willing, ignored, desperate for his attention?

“Malfoy, you’re next,” Lestrange called impatiently. “Sleeping already, mate?”

Abraxas forced a chuckle and drew a card from the deck. Three of hearts—not helpful in the slightest. He discarded it and swallowed down the rest of the firewhiskey in his goblet. It burned his throat and stomach, hazing his mind and relieving some of the jealousy and sorrow.

As the game went on, he continued to drink until the cards blurred in front of him and the swing music shot straight into his ears, drowning out the hoots and hollers around him. The game was abandoned in favor of sideways, drunken dancing and heckling.

“Malfoy,” came a sudden voice in his ear, a hand clasping his shoulder. Abraxas raised his bleary eyes and found himself looking up at Avery’s smirking face.

“Yaxley’s a bit pissed,” the elder said, barely audible over the din. “Let’s get him to the dormitory, shall we? Then you can get the book you’ve been promising to lend me for ages now.”

“Which—?”

“Come on.” Avery tugged him away from the table. “Don’t tell me you’re just as pissed as these baboons.”

Abraxas didn’t bother hiding his grin, passing it off as amusement at the others’ state. He was quite drunk, but he was nowhere near as bad as Yaxley. The bloke was swaying on his feet, chin to his chest.

“’M alright, mate, jus’ give me a mo’…” he slurred as Avery and Abraxas took his arms. “Oi, pretty lady!” he called to Lucretia Black in the passageway to the dormitories. She wrinkled her nose and disappeared.

Halfway to the fourth-year wing, Avery abruptly released Yaxley and stepped away. “Take him there and meet me back in the common room. Don’t forget the book.”

Abraxas stared at him, nonplussed, for he had no idea what he was referring to. He’d thought that Avery had used it as a ploy to get them alone together. Apparently, that was wishful thinking, since Avery was walking away.

“Which book?” Abraxas called out in desperation, trying to ignore the sinking in his chest.

“You know which,” Avery replied without looking back.

Suppressing a sigh of frustration, Abraxas prodded an asleep-on-his-feet Yaxley to his bed, where he collapsed facedown once his shins hit the bedframe.

Without a better plan, Abraxas decided to go to his dormitory and select any book that wouldn’t get him teased and give it to Avery. Was he pranking him, testing him somehow? Perhaps Abraxas should just forget it and go to sleep himself.

That idea vanished as soon as he stepped foot in the room and saw Avery seated upon his bed. He stopped short, staring dumbly with his mouth open.

“Well, come in, won’t you?” Avery chuckled.

Abraxas obeyed, jumping as the other raised his wand and slammed the door shut. “They—they’ll look for us,” he stuttered, still struck dumb. His mind couldn’t seem to turn back on.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” Avery told him, flashing a mischievous grin. “Come here.”

He patted his thighs and Abraxas’ head just about spun off his shoulders. _This is a dream, likely_, but hell, what did it matter now? Abraxas was going to enjoy the feel of Avery’s firm thighs beneath him and his hand on the small of his back. The delicious scent of Parisian cologne and Twilfitt robes, a musk unique to Avery, filled Abraxas’ nose.

“Well, look who’s finally relaxed,” the older boy teased, running a hand under Abraxas’ robes and up his thigh over his trousers. “Let me taste that sweet mouth.”

His hand was on the back of Abraxas’ head now, bringing their faces closer together until their lips met. Avery’s tongue was hungry and probing, his palm rubbing over the stiffness between Abraxas’ legs.

“Has Baby Malfoy been a good boy for his master?” Avery growled against Abraxas’ eager mouth. Only a second passed—albeit a long second of unbuckling and shuffling and teasing and wanting—and Avery had Abraxas in his firm grasp, sending shivers up his spine and down his legs. Palm flat against his chest, Avery pushed Abraxas onto his back, undoing his robes and lifting up his cotton undershirt.

“That’s it, baby,” Avery coaxed, pumping until Abraxas seized up, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a grunt. Hot fluid spilled onto his stomach, and all of the tension, good and bad, leaked out of his muscles.

Lying limp, Abraxas opened his mouth to tell Avery _I love you_, reaching for him, but Avery was standing up. A harsh yank of the bed hangings swept them over Abraxas’ legs, blocking Avery from view.

“Sweet dreams, Abraxas,” his low, perfect voice said. A second later, the loud _thud _of the door closing behind him traveled through the thick, silent air.

Too exhausted to stand up, Abraxas stripped to his drawers and attempted to clean away the fluid with his handkerchief. A sticky residue remained, so Abraxas stuck the handkerchief under the pillow and lie on his back. Closing his eyes, he replayed the glorious encounter only once before he fell asleep, lips curled up in a satisfied smile.

✦

Tom was growing more irritated by the minute. A thick layer of dust coated his hair and shoulders, both an inconvenient shade of black. Dust clung to his eyelashes and lodged itself in his throat. And there was _nothing_, not one bloody goddamn thing about horcruxes, other than their mention in _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_.

He’d spent hours scanning each line in the instructions, fighting shivers as his body recalled the excruciating process. He was willing to go through it all again if it guaranteed more power and immortality. The problem was that he knew not if it was safe enough—he had too many plans to carry out before he left Hogwarts.

Letting out a harsh breath, Tom shoved an old tome back into place and took a seat in the rickety wooden bench nearby. The only other place he’d seen a mere mention of horcruxes was in his History of Magic textbook, in an excerpt discussing Herpo the Foul, the only wizard in recorded history who had made one.

Tom’s fingers closed around the onyx ring and twirled it. He rather enjoyed wearing it, a constant reminder of his noble lineage, but he’d pay homage to the Gaunts soon enough. They were squalid and barking mad, yet they gave him a bit of prestige in this backward society.

An image filled his head without permission: blurred trees with sunlight poking through their branches, dim like during an eclipse. A memory within a memory, stolen from his uncle, who was approaching a girl sitting on a bed of leaves. She was hunched over, her long hair in tangles down her back, facing a path ahead. The _clop clop _of hooves against dirt rang through the woods…

Enough of this utter nonsense, Tom scolded himself and slammed down the white walls around the memory before it could play any further. His Occlumency skills were more useful than his Legilimency at times like these.

Now without pesky sap crowding his head, he could get back on track. Where could he find the information he needed regarding horcruxes? Of course, Knockturn Alley, but Tom hadn’t a way of returning to London unless he stayed at Wool’s for the remainder of winter break—absolutely not an option.

He crept out of the library and took the long way back to the common room, detouring deeper into the dungeons. Perhaps one of his Knights would invite him…but that was rather unappealing as well. These inbred fools were best dealt with from a distance.

On the topic of inbred fools, the snappish tone of Cygnus Black’s notoriously short temper floated around the bend up ahead. Why on Earth the prat down here when he should’ve been doing prefect rounds was a mystery, but Tom was not going to intervene when he could potentially glean valuable information.

“…how hard could it be to sit and look pretty? You could start by closing your mouth and setting down the fork.”

Ah, he was having a row with his dear sister, and he knew which nerve to touch, for Walburga was not speaking in her shrew-voice but in a clear, even tone. “You’d like to talk about nobility, then? How noble are you and all the prats you wish for me to marry, when you lot rally around that half-blood orphan, kissing his arse with begging lips?”

The blood in Tom’s body increased by several degrees in that same second as he curled his fists. Despite that, he kept still in shadow just before the bend, listening to his Knight’s reply, which turned out to be a lame “Bite your tongue, Walburga.”

And of course, the little bitch did the opposite. “Even you can’t justify it, can you, Cygnus? Tom Riddle is a half-blood who grew up _muggle _in some filthy orphanage. He’s obviously touched in his lice-covered head, and the whole lot of you simply worship him! For Merlin’s sake, Cygnus, why? Have you ever once asked yourself why?”

Just as Tom thought he’d spring out and hex her into the Hospital Wing, a loud _slap _reached his ears, followed by a yelp. His hand twitched, aching to be the one against her plump cheek, marring her face until it was as ugly as her words.

“Learn your place, witch.”

Heels clicked against stone; Walburga was leaving without a word. Tom listened for her crying, aggravated when he didn’t hear any. Learn her place, she would indeed once he got ahold of her.

After a few moments, he turned the bed and found Cygnus standing frozen in the middle of the corridor. He whipped around and paled when he recognized Tom, lowering his eyes.

“Greetings,” he mumbled with no trace of the ire he’d had moments ago. “Terribly sorry to be out here so late, but I needed a private word with my sister.” He peered up, gauging Tom’s reaction. He found none, for Tom held his face still.

“Not to worry, Cygnus. Come, let’s return to the common room, shall we? I shudder to think of the state of it in our absence.”

“Indeed,” said the other, visibly relieved under the blindly hopeful assumption that Tom hadn’t heard his sister’s declarations.

He needn’t worry; his fear of Tom was satisfying enough. Side by side, they walked in silence. As for Walburga Black, Tom imagined her in Semele Selwyn’s place, tied to the chair, splattered with his body fluids and her own tears. It would not abate the boiling rage still circulating within his blood, but no matter, Tom would think of an appropriate punishment for her, one that would shut her up for good.


	5. Disparate Youth

The Slug Club meetings were held on the first Friday of the month, during which any given half of the Slytherin boys were serving detention. Whether Horace Slughorn planned this to keep the gatherings small, or reward the ones present, or perhaps no reason at all, was not known. Abraxas just knew he’d ever missed one, for he’d never once received detention in his five years at Hogwarts, which the others constantly ridiculed him about.

Except Riddle—he’d never missed one either. He sat at the end of the table opposite the professor in a high-backed velvet armchair. The others—Lestrange, Avery, the Black cousins, and Cygnus’ younger brother, Alphard—were flanked around him, leaving the seat next to Slughorn for Abraxas, who had gotten caught up in his book and arrived ten minutes late. Because of this misfortune, he was Slughorn’s first target.

“Abraxas, my boy, Cassius tells me there are many changes to Hogwarts’ curriculum underway. Perhaps you can enlighten us on any of them?”

Abraxas gulped down the large swallow of butterbeer he’d just taken from the elaborately-carved goblet in front of him. “I’m afraid I don’t know of any, Professor.” Cassius Malfoy, Head of the Education Department, hardly spoke to his son when he was in front of his face, let alone write him letters with details of Ministry activity.

Slughorn turned away and moved on to Lestrange, asking of his plans for the holiday. Rather unnecessary, as the Lestranges went to the south of France every single year to visit various relatives. Sure enough, this year was no different, so Slughorn’s next target was Riddle.

"Superb job on brewing that Amortentia, Tom. Quite a spell you’d put on a lady under with that! But from my observation, you’ve hardly any trouble with that, my boy. As long as they don’t distract you from lessons…”

Chuckles tinged with jealousy came from the rest of the table while Riddle merely grinned. “Indeed they will not, Professor.”

“Ah, but soon you will be of age, and a few of you are already.” Slughorn gestured to Lestrange and Avery. Abraxas took advantage and glanced at the latter, noting how much older than he and more mature he seemed. Avery was losing his boyish charm, his green eyes colder and his dark hair shorter, parted neatly. Abraxas realized he was staring and quickly snatched up his goblet, peering into the foamy liquid.

“That is why I am planning something in lieu of next month’s meeting,” Slughorn continued. “A more festive occasion.”

He winked, beaming around the table. None of the boys looked particularly enthused and Abraxas himself was ambivalent. Any occasion involving Avery and alcohol was fine with him.

“Sounds excellent, Professor,” said Cygnus Black. “Now is the time to acquaint ourselves with witches, gentlemen, so we can start a family and continue our valuable bloodlines as soon as possible.”

Various forms of assent were given in response. Riddle stayed silent—with no family and no pureblood values drummed into him, he had no pressure to find a bride. Sometimes, like right now, Abraxas envied him because of this.

“Wonderful! Let’s say December the 12th, shall we? I’ll invite a few of Ministry colleagues. Can’t pass up a good opportunity to network, right, gentlemen?”

At the conclusion of the Slug Club meeting, Riddle disappeared and the rest went back to the common room. Abraxas trailed behind the others, running through all the assignments and studying to complete before the 12th of December. Now with the added hassle of finding a witch to accompany him to the party and ordering new dress robes from France, since he’d outgrown his.

Also, the toughest of all, the idea of Avery in his finest robes, holding the waist of some pretty Slytherin girl. What if he chose one he actually fancied? _Did _Avery fancy girls? He must, since Abraxas figured it was odd enough he and Avery fancied each other. Unnatural, everyone labeled it when two boys lie together. Unnatural and wrong, though it didn’t _feel_ wrong to Abraxas. Nonetheless, any indication of he and Avery being more than mates was out of the question.

But if Abraxas was perfectly honest, he preferred Avery to attend the party solo.

The next morning, after his Arithmancy chart kept him up nearly all night, Abraxas took a seat in his usual place at the Slytherin table. Breakfast didn’t appear for another ten minutes, so hardly anyone was in the Great Hall. Across from him sat the Black girls and further down, a gang of jostling third-years.

Perse, the Malfoys’ owl, delivered _The Daily Prophet _and flew off without acknowledging Abraxas. GRINDELWALD ADVANCES read the first page. Cassius Malfoy insisted that Grindelwald’s regime was just the antidote Magical Britain needed against poisonous muggle mixing, but Abraxas didn’t particularly care one way or another. Muggle infiltration might become his concern in the future, but right now, it just…wasn’t.

“Good morning, ladies,” said a voice from behind him just as toast and jam appeared on the plates and the cups filled with tea. Abraxas turned and found himself once again looking up at James Avery, his heart flipping in his chest.

Avery was not looking at him, eyes on the Black girls. “My, Lucretia, you grow fairer with each passing day.”

The dark-haired one of the pair flushed red while the blonde rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Avery?”

“I don’t believe I addressed you, Walburga. Haven’t you got a puffskein to kick?”

Also flushing, except with fury not flattery, Walburga opened her mouth and closed it in the same second, for Aurelia Parkinson materialized next to them. A strong mix of floral perfume and waving lotion assaulted Abraxas’ nose and eyes.

Aurelia spotted Avery and looked at him quizzically. Avery took this as a signal to continue, unabashed. “Professor Slughorn will be hosting a gathering on the 12th of December. Darling Lucretia, I’d be ever so delighted to have you by my side.”

Abraxas closed his eyes and rolled them so hard, they could’ve swiveled all the way around. Across from him, Walburga scrunched up her face as if Avery had just tossed a dead rat on the table.

Lucretia, however, was a different story, capturing a soft giggle with a dainty hand and batting her long eyelashes. Because of _course _no one in their right mind would turn down James Avery. “I’d love to, James.”

“Swell.” He flashed her a winning smile, cementing the deal. “Please excuse me, I must speak to Cygnus.”

Without a single word or glance at Abraxas, Avery walked over to Cygnus and Orion, who’d just entered the Great Hall, bleary-eyed and rankled. That was it for the rest of the meal—Avery ignored Abraxas, while Abraxas felt icicles digging into his chest and stomach.

Well, two can play that game, he told himself over and over as he searched for his Slytherin counterpart. It took an aggravating amount of time after an entire dull blur of lessons to finally catch Ananke Messier in the common room, styling her younger sister’s hair. Most of the older-year boys were on the Quidditch pitch, providing a heckle-free opportunity. Best to get the dreadful ordeal over with early.

This would be made easier if Ananke would stop talking for half a second. On and on she chattered, forcing long, bone-straight locks of hair into curls. “How much longer?” her sister asked impatiently.

“Be patient, Harpalyke. Beauty takes time. If you wear your hair like this—and perhaps portion your meals a bit better—you’ll have a wizard in no time—”

“Hello, Ananke,” Abraxas interjected, unable to take it anymore.

“Oh, hello, Abraxas!” she cried, suddenly very high-pitched and clumsy, dropping a clump of hair over Harpalyke’s face. “How do you think you did on the Charms assignment?”

Abraxas shrugged, ready to forgo the small talk. “Say, Slughorn’s throwing a party on the 12th. Would you care to join me?”

“Why, of course!” she all but squealed, throwing up her hands. Behind her, her sister quietly slid off the chair and crept away.

Abraxas’ stomach was sinking; he found no joy in getting Ananke so enthusiastic under false pretenses. Perhaps she would be the one he’d take for a wife, elevating her status and getting his family off his back. But he would never love her like he loved Avery.

She didn’t need to know that in the current moment, though, so he forced a grin. “Excellent. I look forward to it.”

“I do as well!”

Later that night, Abraxas rolled around in his bed, but it might as well have been made of wood and burlap for how comfortable he could get. In lieu of sleep were cold, hard truths. This was how it had to be. Any other way would get him ostracized. His love for Avery might’ve came naturally to his heart, but society and blood ties weighed more. That did not help him sleep in the slightest—never had taking the right course of action felt so _wrong_.

✦

There were two places at Hogwarts where true calm existed: the Restricted Section of the library and the Room of All Hidden Things. Since Tom couldn’t brew a potion in the former, here he was in the latter, his cauldron set up on an old, creaky desk.

_“Aguamenti.” _Water poured from his wand into empty blackness. Beside the cauldron were key ingredients: vials of powdered moonstone, rose petals, and thorns. And in a petri dish, frozen ashwinder eggs. These had to be added first and heated with the water.

_“Incendio.” _Watching the flames, Tom recalled the Knights’ meeting he’d held the previous night. The intention had been to list a few undesirables and make a concrete plan to put them in their place, but of course, it devolved into talk to witches and Slughorn’s party. With distaste, he realized he’d also have to take a witch if he didn’t want to draw the wrong kind of attention to himself.

The water was boiling—time to add peppermint and rose petals. They disintegrated almost immediately, helped along with four counter-clockwise stirs. The liquid took on a pale pink color. Now ten minutes of waiting before he could add the thorns, one by one.

In the interim, Tom weighed out five grams of moonstone powder, careful to keep from inhaling it. He needed clarity, even when he was thinking of such mundane matters as asking a witch to a party.

Careful sprinkles of the powder into the potion, followed by the thorns, each exactly ten seconds apart, turned it an even lighter pink. The first traces of shimmery white were beginning to appear, but it needed another 20 or so minutes to take on the tell-tale opaque sheen.

Tom had quite a few witches to choose from, much more than last year, when he hadn’t taken anyone. A wry grin crossed his face, flushed from the heat of his cauldron. He’d like to take Semele Selwyn under threat of blackmail—it would be quite fun to toy with her all evening. But he had better plans for her in the near future.

Aurelia Parkinson was awful; Ananke Messier was taken, so was Lucretia Black… There were plenty of non-Slytherins who fancied him, such as swotty Ravenclaw Lysandra Bell, but she would not do. He needed a Slytherin, preferably a pureblood…

At last, it was time to add the pearl dust. Gingerly, Tom shook every last bit from the vial into the potion—the stuff was expensive and he’d measured so carefully—and let it simmer another minute. Then the characteristic swirls floated into the air.

Not wanting to inhale the scent, Tom held his breath while he pulled out a flask and ladle from his bag. Ever so carefully, he scooped up the shimmering white and poured it into the flask until it was full. On the last scoop, the ladle slipped out of his hand for absolutely no reason and clattered onto the floor.

Against his will, Tom inhaled sharply, pulling the musky swirls up his nose. At once, he was transported somewhere else, somewhere warm and scented vaguely like the library mixed with salt water and the dying lawns during that crisp segue from autumn to winter. A debate he’d had last year with Dumbledore ran through his head: _Ah, Tom, love always wins against hate_, along with Slughorn’s introduction to Amortentia: _There is great power in obsessive love_.

“Rubbish,” Tom said out loud, but his voice sounded oddly lilted and kind through a soothing hum in his ears. No, enough; where was the damn cork? Here, next to the cauldron. He promptly shoved it into the neck of the flask and pulled out his wand.

_“Evanesco.”_

The swirls dissipated, leaving him with this awful ache in his chest. _Enough of this, fool! You are better than the weak, common man! _He was not supposed to be affected by a silly _potion. _Though he had to admit he was relieved when the pearly glow was contained in the flask. It would only be saved for special occasions.

Which disqualified Slughorn’s party. With his charm, Tom didn’t need a potion to have a fun night with a girl willing to submit. Even the pureblood princesses glanced at him out of the side of their narrowed eyes.

Leaving the empty cauldron to cool down, he took a walk between the heaps of old rubbish, looking for a place to hide the flask. At the end of an aisle was an old, wooden cabinet, one of its doors sagging. He opened it and inspected the empty shelves. Dusty but stable.

He set the flask on the side with the intact door and sealed it shut. Satisfied, he rubbed his palms together to wipe off the dust, walking back to the cauldron set-up. Just as he reached it, the perfect witch to bring sprang into his mind. A challenge, but he could definitely seduce her without the potion.

✧

Just when Walburga’s week couldn’t get any worse, an ominous tone began to permeate the Slytherin gossip. Slughorn’s stupid bloody party was rapidly approaching, and the girls were tracking who invited whom as closely as the Ministry of Grindelwald’s whereabouts.

Walburga hadn’t expected any invites and assumed none of the other Slytherins expected her presence. She hadn’t gone to any of Slughorn’s other parties, which all seemed to be centered on making Ministry connections. For what on Earth would a witch need that? According to Lucretia, the witches only gossiped and watched the wizards drink there anyway.

However, this year it seemed like a _big fuss _for Walburga to skive it off. “You’re not going at _all_?” asked Semele Selwyn, back to her condescending self now that Lestrange had invited her, at breakfast the other day. “Why, you must’ve gotten _one _invitation, at least.”

Walburga wished many times, especially lately, that it was socially acceptable for a witch to tell another to simply sod off. She was very close to uttering it when she was accosted by Lucretia in the library the week before the party.

“Hello, dear cousin. May I have a word?”

Walburga gestured to the chair across the table, which was decorated with her Latin worksheets. She still couldn’t remember the damn noun endings, let along NEWT-level conjugations.

Lucretia took a seat and folded her dainty hands in her lap. “Has anyone asked you yet?” By then, the question had been asked so many times, she didn’t need to specify anything else.

“Take a guess,” Walburga sighed.

“So you’re not planning on going, then? You do realize it’s a rather bad reflection on our family, yes?”

Walburga let out a huff and slammed down her quill. “What do you expect me to do about it? Can’t exactly ask a bloke to invite me, can I?”

Her cousin cocked her head to the side, letting a glossy lock of dark hair slide off her shoulder. “You could do well by being a bit more approachable. Many are quite intimidated by you.”

“That’s their problem.” Walburga picked up the quill and turned back to her notes as If to dismiss her. “And anyway, I’ve a fair bit of NEWT studying to do. Might as well get a head start.”

“Come off it, Wally,” Lucretia replied with a touch of impatience. “Do your NEWT scores really matter once you’ve finished Hogwarts?”

Walburga paused. Lucretia was right; they wouldn’t matter, but Walburga had an odd sort of pride in her slightly-higher than average marks. She might’ve been rubbish with anything social, but what was the point of pureblood pride if magical talent meant nothing at all?

“Well, they matter to me,” she muttered. “And for heaven’s sake, stop calling me _Wally_, will you? It makes me sound like a—”

“Walburga.” A hand clamped down on her shoulder, startling her. She turned and looked up at the solemn face of her least favorite brother. “Won’t you come with me? Please excuse us, Lucretia.”

“Certainly, Cygnus,” Lucretia replied, smiling and rising from the chair. “I need to get back to the ladies anyhow.”

Walburga was less enthused: she let out another harsh breath as she abandoned her sheets and followed Cygnus out of the library. No sooner than they’d entered the corridor, she plunged into a rant. “It would be absolutely fantastic if I could study for a moment without you lot crawling up my arse. If this is a lecture about the poxy party, save it because I’m not going and that’s final!”

“Shut up,” he responded blandly, taking such long strides, she had to nearly trot to keep up.

“Slow down, will you?” she grumbled, ignoring his last statement. “Say, where are we going anyway?”

They were deeper in the dungeons than Walburga had ever been before. It was terribly cold and not even half the torches were lit, bathing the dank corridor in dim light. “Why have we got to—AAGH!”

A shrill scream escaped her mouth and her heart nearly dropped into her intestinal tract upon seeing a dark figure suddenly emerge from the shadows.

Tom Riddle exchanged chuckles with Cygnus while Walburga grasped at her pounding heart. “For Merlin’s sake, Riddle! What are you playing at?”

“Terribly sorry to frighten you, Walburga,” Riddle said, giving her a smirk that turned her fear into instant rage.

“For what the hell am I here, anyway?” she snapped, feeling like an utter fool. Her hands curled into fists as she stood in battle stance, feet apart. “Let me guess: you two dolts dragged me here to find out whether anyone’s invited me to Slughorn’s rubbish, yes? Well, for the umpteenth time, the answer is no!”

“Excellent,” Riddle said as soon as she took a breath to start firing again. “I do hope that, in that case, you’ll accompany me to the party?”

“I—what?” Walburga ejected, thrown off.

Next to Riddle, Cygnus rolled his eyes. “Real classy, Walburga.”

“Shut up, Cygnus. Forgive me, Riddle, but are you—_inviting _me to Slughorn’s party next week?”

“Indeed,” he responded, turning on the charm that morphed even elite pureblood witches into blathering fangirls. “What do you say, dear girl?”

Bewildered, she turned to look at her brother, who tightened his lips and bulged out his eyes as if something had just squeezed his bollocks. Obviously he wanted her to say yes, but Riddle was a half-blood. How in the name of Merlin was he worthy enough to—?

“I’m asking you, dear, not Cygnus,” Riddle pointed out with a slight edge.

“I—erm, alright, yes,” she stumbled, unable to form a coherent thought. Cygnus deflated with relief, giving her a nod of approval.

“Excellent.” Riddle took her hand and brought it to his mouth. “I look forward to the 12th,” he said before pressing his lips against her delicate skin. A funny feeling took over for half a second, gone in a flash when he dropped her hand.

Walburga nodded, realizing she was holding the hand he’d held with her other. “Please excuse me. I must return to the library.”

They let her go without another word. As she traipsed through the frigid corridors, that odd sensation returned, warming her up. No one could deny that Tom Riddle was quite handsome and had a voice like the finest champagne when he was inclined to use it.

In the library, Walburga resumed studying, but the Latin words in front of her were…well, Latin. And her mind wasn’t remotely interested in retaining them. Instead, it wanted to keep imagining Riddle’s long-fingered hands and lips against her skin, sending a jolt between her legs and through her limbs. Get ahold of yourself, she scolded, are you so improper?

Evidently, attending the party with a half-blood was more acceptable than going alone. Thus, her “duty” was fulfilled. Walburga was not ready to admit that her pleasure from what had just transpired hadn’t much to do with placating her family.


	6. Until We Bleed

Headmaster Dippet had allowed Professor Slughorn to take over the Great Hall for the night to accommodate all of the guests, the majority of which were from the Ministry. Tom’s first half-hour of the party was spent dragged around the decorated hall by Slughorn, shaking hand after hand. The heads of nearly every department were present, so that was a lot of dolts Tom had to play charming to. No matter—his charm could get him through any droll, and later he could have fun with it.

Eventually, he’d passed through the lot of them and was released to the Slytherin boys. The students were separated by gender and convened around two large, circular tables. Silver oil lamps nestled in wreaths were the centerpieces, along with a bottle of firewhiskey and frosted goblets on the boys’ table.

Tom took a seat between Lestrange and Avery and glanced around. All of them were there, in dress robes that cost more than the entirety of Tom’s possessions. But that didn’t matter, for Tom had the upper hand and that was worth more than all of their wealth together. He lifted his goblet. “To the end of term, gentlemen.”

They mimicked him and each took a drink. Tom didn’t care for alcohol but another sacrifice to pretending to be a common wizard was taking a swallow now and then.

A game of cards started up, so Tom participated for a bit, studying his housemates—his Knights. He could tell which would be loyal and which would betray him easily by their levels of infatuation with witches. In this regard, Cygnus Black and Victor Mulciber were the most troublesome. They couldn’t keep their eyes from straying. To no one’s surprise, Mulciber took a fourth-year, Fawley-something. Meanwhile, Cygnus Black lusted after anyone with a vagina. On the contrary, Avery, Malfoy, and Orion Black seemed to have forgotten their dates entirely.

“Tom!” Slughorn squawked in his ear. “Come, you must meet Kenneth Dunn, the Head of…” The rest of the sentence was drowned out by Tom’s chair against the floor and a burst of laughter from a group nearby.

Again he was forced to weave through a crowd with varying levels of sobriety until he was face to face with a lanky wizard with a long ginger beard. Tom was reminded of a younger Dumbledore, who thankfully had left the castle by then. Fortunately, the wizard and Slughorn started up a conversation, freeing him back up.

He headed back to the table, but somehow the crowd carried him to the periphery of the Great Hall. The shrieks of laughter and chairs scraping and general chaos were all aggravating him.

“Hey, kid!” someone called from behind him. “You there!”

Tom turned around and found himself looking at an older wizard with two front teeth made of gold. “Let me see that, will you?” His thick, knobby finger pointed at Gaunt’s ring.

Tom complied and raised his hand, allowing the man a better view. They’d already been introduced, but Tom couldn’t recall anything about him.

“That’s a mighty valuable piece you’ve got here,” he remarked. “From where, may I ask, did you obtain it?”

“It’s an heirloom, sir,” Tom told him; technically the truth. “It was passed down to me from the Gaunt line.”

“The Gaunt line?” The man raised a bushy eyebrow. “I thought they died out, since the last descendants…”

Disbelieving, he eyed the onyx ring again, squinting and then pulling sharply back, eyes wide. “By gods! That’s the Peverell coat of arms!”

Now Tom’s grin had a bit of authenticity behind it. Here was the power exchange. “Indeed, sir.”

“Why, that’s worth a fortune, my boy! Are you interested in selling?” The wizard stepped closer. “You could have a fair bit of gold...enough to live as nicely as those mates of yours…wouldn’t that be grand?”

No, Tom wanted to say, because I am superior to all of them. Instead he arranged his features in feigned interest. “Perhaps we could arrange something, Mr.…”

“Burke,” the other supplied. “Caractacus Burke, owner of Borgin and Burke’s.”

At once, the man became slightly more interesting. Tom had never been inside the shop, but he’d gleaned through talk that it sold magical artifacts. Perhaps it had some valuable receptacles for his horcruxes. Before he could say another word, the band on the stage switched from exuberant swing to smooth jazz for the second time that evening.

“Well, don’t let me hold you, boy,” said Burke. “Go on and dance with that pretty lady you brought. One of the Black girls, yes? Quite a lucky bloke you are.”

“It was a pleasure, sir,” Tom said, making a mental note to visit Borgin and Burke’s the next time he was in Diagon Alley. Not when hell froze over would he give up Gaunt’s ring, but Burke didn’t have to know that.

Time seemed to slow along with the music, the pairs quiet and swaying in lazy rhythm. Walburga Black was the only one still at the table, swallowing champagne, seemingly unfussed. He hadn’t been around for the first slow dance, so he owed her this one. “Walburga, may I have this dance?”

“I suppose,” she replied flatly, extending a silk-gloved hand. He led her to a spot skirting the edge of the platform and fell into step with her. Many of his evenings in previous months had been spent learning how to dance and yet, much to his chagrin, his moves were stiff and uncoordinated. Merlin, did he hate this formal rubbish.

Walburga, on the other hand, was unexpectedly loose and graceful, twirling over his missteps and leading with her hand firmly in his grasp. If she noticed his less-than experience, she did not speak of it. Unusually solemn, she avoided his eyes, gazing around the hall. To pass the time, Tom imagined her without the billowed dress and that veil over her face. Just a naked young woman with disheveled hair, her blood status ceasing to matter.

Eventually, she looked up, her dark almond eyes on his. He sank into her mind and saw a most interesting memory: Walburga in the bath, empty of water, glistening pale skin, breathy sighs in his ears. _Walburga…his _voice in her head. As if she could tell he could see, she blushed and looked away.

When the song ended, Tom was the first to pull away, holding her hand up to brush his lips against the back. He would’ve liked to feel her bare skin, but that would come later in the night. Now, he had to ensure his Knights were behaving after all the whiskey they’d consumed.

He arrived at the table and saw that most of them had stayed on the platform to continue dancing. Except for Lestrange, who was flaunting his wealth like a peacock in front of a bunch of Ministry officials. Also an exception was Malfoy, as evidenced by his date stomping past, nearly puncturing Tom’s loafer with the heel of her shoe.

“Good heavens, I’m sorry,” she gasped and for a minute actually appeared on the verge of tears. Meanwhile, Tom fought hard to keep the grimace off his face, curling his throbbing toes. “Oh, forgive me…”

He blinked and Semele Selwyn was by her side, gripping her shoulders. “Dear cousin, what’s happened? Has he…?”

The girl, who Tom only knew as Messier One since she was the eldest of two sisters, collected herself and shook her head. “Nothing, dear, it’s just, I think I’ve upset Abraxas. He’s done a bunk…”

Selwyn turned to Tom and appraised him with a cold expression, though she couldn’t mask her fear. “I’ll sort it from here,” she told him, trying and failing to sound indifferent.

“I’m sure you will, dear Semele,” he answered snidely, turning his back on her. Letting slip a small, satisfied grin, he felt her eyes beaming through his back. Good.

Abraxas Malfoy was indeed nowhere to be found. Furthermore, Lucretia Black was seated beside Walburga, meaning James Avery had cleared off as well. Tom had a very good idea what they were up to and now he needed the proof. Nothing like a little bit of blackmail to ensure their loyalty.

The problem was, he could not find them anywhere. He checked every single nook and cranny—he knew them all—where two students would sneak off to. He even tried the Room of All Hidden Things, which was thankfully just as he’d left it.

The only other place were the dormitories, though he found it highly unlikely, given the other little twits surely flocking the common room in the older-years’ absence. Furthermore, Tom was losing interest and wishing to withdraw for the evening, not wanting to see anyone else. Except, perhaps, maybe one more—the one he’d been waiting to play with all evening.

In a stroke of luck, he found her wandering the left-wing dungeons on wobbly heels. She was drunk and wiping makeup from puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, and swollen lips. For Tom, she couldn’t have been in a more perfect state.

✧

Abraxas was regretting taking Ananke Messier to this party. The girl was off her rocker albeit in a subtle way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Whenever they were within a couple feet of each other, she spoke non-stop of their future wedding and how many children she wanted and which neighborhood they were going to live in… Just when he was sure his brain was starting to melt, she spotted their fathers standing along the far wall in deep conversation.

“Come, let’s greet them,” she said, clasping his hand and dragging him off the platform.

This was going from bad to worse. Abraxas wished to duck his head and avoid the recognition of Cassius Malfoy, but he forced his gaze straight and walked beside her, arm-in-arm.

“Ah, there’s my son, Abraxas,” his father said. To anyone else, it might’ve seemed like he was actually glad to see his son. Abraxas knew better. “With your lovely daughter, Charles. What a coincidence!”

“Indeed,” replied the next-in-line Head of Treasury, Charles Messier. He didn’t spare a glance toward his daughter, addressing Abraxas. “Plan to follow your father’s footsteps, boy?”

His grey eyes were missing something, Abraxas noticed immediately. While many of these Ministry wizards were simply greedy and self-righteous, this one had an under-layer of cruelty. Like Riddle, Abraxas thought as his mouth formed a polite response. “I plan to, sir.”

“Abraxas will surely help implement more reliable methods of cleaning up our society,” said Cassius and the two men drove into plans of reform to keep muggles and their descendants in their rightful place. Abraxas had heard the litany so many bloody times he could recite it by heart.

Ananke had grown solemn, so he took her hand and led her back onto the platform. “Come, let’s dance, shall we?”

“Oh, yes! Look at the full moon! I wonder if it’s actually there or they’ve enchanted it…”

The band was playing an upbeat swing tune, allowing them to keep a distance and loosen up. With a couple goblets of firewhiskey in him, Abraxas was relaxing, and the tune was slowing, pairs forming. He and Ananke assumed the stance, weaving in long steps through the other couples. They’d started near the student tables, but somehow, they were back exactly where Abraxas had led her away from, both of their fathers still in deep conversation by the wall.

Here is where it went from worse to downright bizarre: They moved fluidly together, but Abraxas noticed Ananke’s wide hazel eyes straying toward the two men. They were inching closer and closer and still they did not look over. Abraxas was quite happy about this, while Ananke grew even more solemn. At last, a trumpet sounded out, speeding up the tune again. He let her go and took her hand.

“Come, let’s have a break,” he called over the din. Not turning to see if she was all right with this idea, he wormed his way over to the girls’ table, empty except for Walburga and Lucretia Black.

“Here, erm, have some champagne.” He guided Ananke to the nearest chair and pulled it out for her, stopping just short of shoving her into it. “Please excuse me, but I must find Avery. Dear Lucretia, do you know where he’s gone?”

“I don’t,” Lucretia responded, and her expression suggested she didn’t much care, either. Both of the Black girls were eyeing Ananke with distaste, but Abraxas couldn’t play mediator right now. His stomach had started hurting as soon as he’d noticed Avery’s absence and he couldn’t understand why.

That’s absurd, logic scolded him as he submerged himself back into the chaos. The other Slytherins, such as Cygnus Black and Felix Lestrange, were dancing or sucking up to Ministry officials. Abraxas’ heart sank; if Avery wasn’t with his best mates, where was he? Perhaps with Riddle…

The music slowed again and Riddle appeared out of nowhere to ask Walburga for a dance. Lucretia wasn’t the least bit fussed about being left at the table—evidently, she wasn’t expecting Avery to reappear.

The right thing to do, Abraxas knew, was to grab Ananke and head to the platform. Instead, he snuck out of the Great Hall, kicking himself the entire way. What was he doing chasing Avery, especially with his father around? Why couldn’t he give up on this nonsense?

Yet instead of answering, he focused on the most pressing question: where on Earth was Avery at this hour, alone? The only idea he came up with was the seventh-year dormitory to retire for the night. Perhaps he was feeling poorly or he, too, was fed up with his date and the noise and the Ministry arse-kissing.

The common room was empty save for a pair of fourth-years, Icarus Yaxley and Felix Murdoch, who’d gotten ahold of their own bottle and goblets. They were both obnoxious and ornery, but they knew their place under the older-years, at least.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Abraxas called as he passed to slurred responses. He debated asking if they’d seen Avery and decided against it. He didn’t need the whole castle knowing of his search, drunk as they all were.

In the passageway to the dormitories, he blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dimmer light, and rubbed his eyes. In that time, he’d arrived in the large corridor, where all the doors were shut except for the last one on the left. The seventh-year dormitory.

Heart kicking up, he crept toward it and took a deep breath before pushing the door open further. Sure enough, there was James Avery seated upon his bed, grinning face flickering in the candlelight.

“Well, well, what took you so long, Baby Malfoy? Master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Unfortunately, Abraxas’ head took that moment to blank out, but Avery didn’t seem to mind. He stood and pointed to the bed. “Robes off and lie down.”

Abraxas didn’t have to be told twice. He pulled off his robes and flung them over the nearest desk chair. In one moment, Avery was sealing the door shut; in the next, he was on top of Abraxas, kissing him fiercely and rubbing against him. Avery smelled and felt so _good_, his hot breath filling his lungs and lifting him to the moon.

“Baby Malfoy is eager for his master, I see,” Avery taunted in his ear, palming Abraxas’ erection and sending jolts of need through his groin. “Come, on your side.”

Avery gripped his shoulder, rolling off of him until they faced each other. His rough hand ran down Abraxas’ arm to his hand, bringing it between his legs.

Forehead to forehead, the pair lie panting. Under Abraxas’ palm, Avery’s erection was hot through the fabric. Avery unbuckled his belt and pulled it out, causing Abraxas to flush a deep shade of pink.

“Touch it, yes, that’s a good boy,” Avery coaxed, closing the other’s hand around him. “Up and down, yes, oh, how Baby Malfoy likes to please his master, yes?”

Abraxas tried to kiss him, aching for his tongue against his, but Avery clasped onto the side of his head and thrust into his grip, growling, until hot fluid spilled between them.

Avery rolled to his side and tucked himself away while Abraxas cleaned up with a handkerchief and vanishing charm. The bed shook, along with Avery’s shoulders, and at first Abraxas assumed he was just catching his breath. Then he realized with horror that the older boy was crying.

“James…” He reached out a tentative hand, but Avery sat up, still facing away, and pulled out his own handkerchief. Abraxas climbed off the bed and joined him on the other side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” came Avery’s response, murky through his hands covering his face.

Abraxas’ stomach was tied in knots. Had he done something wrong? But Avery enjoyed it, hadn’t he? “Talk to me,” he pleaded softly, mentally preparing himself to be thrown out.

To his surprise and relief, Avery lowered his hands, revealing slit red eyes and blotchy cheeks. “This is all your fault,” he said, but he wasn’t even looking at Abraxas. “This is sick and unnatural and you know it.”

Abraxas had no response.

“We’re _freaks_, Abraxas. Why are we doing this? Is it worth the risk of losing everything and becoming outcasts for life? Of soiling our family names for generations to come? For Merlin’s sake, we’ve got everything we could ever ask for. What is wrong with us?”

His words were slicing through Abraxas’ chest, bringing tears to his own eyes. Of course it’s worth it, he wanted to shout. He’d never pass up the opportunity to please Avery, to feel him against him and show his love. But Avery didn’t share the same sentiment. Did he even love Abraxas?

Avery looked up, holding Abraxas’ gaze. The two boys sat still, simply looking at each other for a peaceful minute. It dawned upon Abraxas that Avery’s erratic behavior had little to do with him. Thus, he couldn’t fix it unless Avery accepted himself.

Avery lifted his hand and stroked Abraxas’ cheek. “Goodnight, Abraxas.” A small tingle of pleasure abated the ache in Abraxas’ chest; rarely did Avery use his given name.

“Goodnight, James.” He stood as Avery slid under the blanket, robes still on and facing away again. The bond had grown stronger, due to his display of vulnerability. A step in the right direction.

“I hope we do this again,” Abraxas whispered just before opening the door. Avery did not reply.

✦

Walburga had reached her limit; she was completely and entirely done. So far the night was going abysmally—an understatement. Riddle had paid her maybe one minute of attention thus far, and that was to look her up and down and remark, “Looking nice, Lady Black.” No one else seemed to notice her despite her gold-lined, deep turquoise, three-thousand-galleon dress robes.

After Riddle paid his dues and asked her to dance—the one part of the party that wasn’t entirely dreadful—she joined the other Slytherin girls. Their table was conveniently located the farthest from the champagne fountain, she noticed. This did not deter her from marching over to refill her goblet a couple of times. Alright, a few times, but who was counting? Lucretia, apparently.

“Wally, I think you’ve had enough,” she hissed when Walburga snatched up her goblet and drained it after the dance.

“For heaven’s sake, I’m thirsty,” Walburga told her tartly. “I’ve worked up quite a sweat.”

“You were barely dancing. Cygnus says you look like a lush.”

Walburga directed a furious glare at the boys’ table, but Cygnus was not there. “Enough, Lucretia. You’re always blathering about smiling more and being happy and here I am, happier than a pig in sh—”

“Here, erm, have some champagne,” Abraxas Malfoy said by her ear, materializing with a confused-looking Ananke Messier by his side. “Please excuse me, but I must find Avery. Dear Lucretia, do you know where he’s gone?”

Lucretia shook her head. Walburga knew she’d spent a good portion of the evening trying to lose Avery and somehow succeeded. “You’re not exactly trying to catch a bloke either,” she told her cousin snidely when Malfoy disappeared. “Avery is practically royalty. You should be clamoring for his fancy. Instead he’s probably romancing another witch as we speak.”

“Shut up, Walburga,” Lucretia snapped while Messier fussed with her nails, pretending not to be keenly listening. “Avery is a prat, number one, and two, have you looked Riddle’s way once?”

“Riddle is a half—”

“Furthermore, it appears Avery’s done a bunk,” Lucretia continued in a gentler tone, slanting up her pencil-thin eyebrows. “He left the Great Hall about an hour ago.”

“He has?” Walburga was unsure what to make of this information. Avery never went anywhere without Lestrange, Riddle, or Mulciber, and they were all still here. Well, she didn’t see Riddle anywhere, but no doubt he was charming some Ministry bloke.

“Perhaps Malfoy will find him and they’ll return,” Messier spoke up.

The other two did not respond. Vision fuzzy, Walburga let her eyes stray out of focus, landing on a small house-elf replenishing the fountain and simply leaving a half-empty bottle of champagne on the floor behind it.

“I’ll be but a moment,” she said, rising and heading straight toward it. When she brought it back to the table, Lucretia rolled her eyes and let out a huff, which she ignored.

“Would you ladies like some?”

“Alright,” Messier answered, her spirits clearly lifted at being included. Walburga aimed the bottle into her extended goblet, but somehow the champagne was dribbling onto the table, forming a clear, fizzy pool.

“Walburga, _what are you doing?” _Lucretia snatched the bottle out of her hands and slammed it on the table.

“Golly, how unladylike, Lucretia,” Walburga teased.

“Speaking of unladylike! You’re drunk and acting like a right _muggle_!” Lucretia rarely let anyone see her with her temper up; Walburga knew which buttons to press. “Perhaps you shall retire for the night.”

“Best idea you’ve had in a while,” Walburga muttered, turning away without further ado. “This party is rubbish anyway.”

“Good_night_, Walburga,” Lucretia answered, calmed down but still sounding miffed. Messier, for once, kept her mouth shut and stayed out of it, helping herself to some champagne.

Stupid, swotty Lucretia. Walburga cursed her cousin over and over as she headed to the dungeons. What a waste of makeup and alcohol; she was drunk with nowhere to go. Now without the noise, she realized just how drunk, gravitating to the wall. The stone was cool against her palm in contrast to her flushed face.

“Pray tell, where is my date sneaking off to?”

Walburga whipped around and nearly fell over, the corridor tilting all of the sudden. Tom Riddle took her hand to steady her, his smirking face a blur for that chaotic second.

She got a grip on herself and stood upright, but of course he could tell she was less-than-sober. “Ah, I thought Cygnus was calling you a lush in jest.”

Walburga rolled her eyes, trying to pull her hand away to no avail. “About to lecture me on it, too, are you?”

“Quite the contrary,” he said in his smooth-charmer voice. “I’m pleased to see you loosened up. It’ll be easier to take you to the fifth floor.”

Before she could register that statement, he tugged her hand until she was walking alongside him, seemingly headed back to the Great Hall. Then they turned past the wall of prefects to the stairwell.

Why on Earth was he taking her to the fifth floor, and why on Earth was she letting him? Turn back now, her mind was screaming, someone will see you! Yet her feet continued to carry her up the stairs. Another internal voice asked, does it really matter if someone sees you together? The portraits already were, the ladies frowning at her and the men giving Riddle a wink. Walburga was tired of thinking, so she shut her mind off and continued to follow him.

At last, they were at their apparent destination, a large room at the end of a narrow, winding corridor. High windows flooded the room with moonlight, showcasing a large table with nothing on it, surrounded by a dozen or so matching chairs. Apart from those, the room was empty.

“Why are we here?” she asked, more curious than anything else. Curious and sleepy.

“Yes, go on, pretend you don’t know when you’ve been asking for it all night,” he breathed into her ear, standing directly behind her.

“Huh? Asking for what?”

Hands gripped her waist, guiding her to the table. Walburga considered repeating the question, but she felt like it would be answered very shortly.

When she bumped into the sturdy wood, Riddle turned her around, gripped the sides of her face, and kissed her.

Startled, Walburga simply stood frozen, but she was not as rankled as she would be, given the circumstances. In fact, she enjoyed his proximity and his odd scent, like the attic at the Noble House of Black where Irma stored their ancestors’ 19th-century dress robes. The lace especially held on to the wooden, musty smell and that was what filled her nose while Riddle’s mouth explored hers.

He pulled away and she touched her lips, disbelieving. They were plump and alive under her fingertips, but she felt like she wasn’t actively participating in her life at the moment.

“Silly witch, don’t act lie you haven’t yearned for my affections,” Riddle teased, his mouth still inches away from hers. He stroked her cheek and Walburga shook her head. She _had_ yearned for him on occasion late at night, pulling up her night dress and spreading her legs. But there was no way he could know that, for she’d never told it to a soul.

He was lifting her dress robes, revealing black hose strapped to her silk garter, matching knickers underneath. “No,” she said half-heartedly.

“No? Naughty Walburga wants to pretend she’s a proper pureblood now, does she?” His hands were running up her thighs, sending tingles throughout her entire body. The drowsiness persisted, turning into a haze of pleasure.

“Poor, rejected little Walburga,” Riddle continued to taunt, pulling down the neckline of her robes until the thick straps slid off her shoulders, uncovering her bra. “Once the apple of Daddy’s eye and now she can’t seem to please him. Or anyone else.”

Walburga should’ve slapped him and fought him and told him _shut your unworthy mouth_. Instead, she let him remove her bra and leaned back, breathing heavily, pressing her bare breasts into his roving hands.

“What about me, baby?” he hissed in her ear, holding her tightly and rubbing her most sensitive skin under her knickers. Her hips were rocking and her breaths frantic, aching for more. “Can you please me?”

“Yes,” she cried, meeting his mouth and returning his kiss with matching intensity.

Once her knickers were off and his fingers were filling her, all of her ill feelings toward Riddle and everyone else and hell, her whole life were gone, forced out by all-consuming yearning. Thus, when Riddle spread her legs, biting his lip as took in the view, and mounted her, Walburga wrapped her legs around his waist and gave herself to him entirely.


	7. Fear Inoculum

Part II: Spring 1944

Everyone who mattered in Magical Britain was seated in the dining hall of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, tucking into the Boxing Day feast. Pollux and Irma Black had outdone themselves as usual, springing for roast duck, French champagne, and holly leaves adorning the drapes and archways. The wizards sat proudly in their velvet chairs, Pollux at the head. Everyone in the vicinity was kissing their arses—as par for the course.

Meanwhile, Walburga sat between Lucretia and Semele Selwyn, fantasizing about a bath of champagne. Either drowning in it or posing for Riddle; either would do at the moment. Her corset was spine-numbingly tight, allowing her to either breathe or eat but not both. Due to necessity, the latter was forgone for the former.

She also could not move her head, for her hair had been pinned and sprayed for over an hour, yet it still threatened to burst loose. And she couldn’t even have champagne, because her lipstick smears would “deter any potential suitors.” Well, Walburga was going to fix that soon. The champagne problem, that was, since she doubted she would attract a suitor now. All she had to do was slog through the rest of this feast.

Her Aunt Melania didn’t make this any easier when she opened her ever-criticizing mouth. “You two ladies had better get a move on with marrying a wizard. Soon all the good ones will be taken, right, gentlemen?”

Fortunately, the only blokes in earshot were Alphard and Cygnus, who weren’t listening, and Lucretia’s brother, Orion, who resembled a mouse not quite in looks but certainly in demeanor.

“Mother, I’ve told you many times of my plans in France,” Lucretia sighed. “Perhaps I’ll meet one there.”

“Over my dead body will you marry a Frenchman,” Arcturus informed her firmly, even though most of the English purebloods they were pushing the witches toward were of French descent. For example, Malfoy and Avery, joined at the hip as usual further down the table.

“You needn’t worry about Lucretia, brother,” Pollux said after taking a gulp from his goblet. He snapped his fingers and Kreacher appeared, holding a bottle of mead to refill it. “She is quite lovely in appearance and demeanor. It would be swell if Walburga could learn something from her, but some are slow to learn.”

A thick, stifling silence followed his words and hung in the air as Walburga lowered her eyes to her lap, feeling everyone’s glare on her, dissecting her.

“Walburga can be rather lovely sometimes as well.”

Her head snapped up and to the right, where the quiet male voice had come from. Her cousin, Orion, winked at her before turning away and excusing himself.

“Well, he can marry her, then,” said Cassius Malfoy. “Pollux, Selwyn here had the idea of cutting the Hogwarts supplies fund for the downtrodden, since they seem to be primarily mudbloods.”

Pollux nodded and finally the focus was off his daughter. “Didn’t Messier say he was cutting the budget for 1944 anyway? Perfect excuse to get rid of the fund entirely if you ask me.”

One eternity later, the feast was concluded and the wizards and witches split up accordingly. Walburga was supposed to follow her cousin into the parlor, but she wanted to get away from her, from them all. Irma would undoubtedly bring up the subject of marriage again and beat them over the head with it. Instead, Walburga headed to the kitchen in search of champagne.

Like at Slughorn’s party, there was a fountain of champagne in the parlor, but that confined the witches to dainty sips from delicate glasses, only once in a while because _proper witches drink in moderation_.

To hell with moderation tonight, Walburga thought as she set a goblet on the marble countertop and dumped the rest of a bottle into it. Without wasting time, she lifted it to her mouth and drained it, the bubbly relief warming her stomach.

At last, peace. The kitchen was vacated, the house-elves split between the parlor and Pollux’s library. Just Walburga and a few bottles of champagne. A few plates were getting washed in the sink by a charmed scrub-brush, providing a soothing _swish-swish _sound along with the tap running.

Of course, the one bloke she wanted to see was not here. Riddle was at Hogwarts with more peace than she would ever have. Was he thinking of her at all? _Who cares? Stop thinking of him_. It was impossible; especially now with this much alcohol in her. Her body tingled, causing her to shift in her seat as the memories played out of his hands roving over her, his mouth on hers, his breath mixing with hers as they intertwined—

“…looks rather like a fool, don’t you think?” a loud male voice cut into her recollection, startling her. She realized her hand had snaked between her thighs, burying itself into her skirts, and hastily pulled it out just as two wizards entered the kitchen. One of which, she was dismayed to see, was her father. The other was the father of Victor Mulciber.

“Indeed,” Pollux was saying. “Perhaps I should tell Kreacher not to serve him any more brandy, for he clearly can’t control himself.”

They stilled simultaneously upon noticing the young witch by the window, two empty bottles and a goblet on the sill next to her. Assuming they’d leave without speaking to her, Walburga sent them a brief, bleary smile before turning away.

“Walburga, what do you think you’re doing in here?” Pollux demanded. “I believe your place is in the parlor with the other witches.”

“Yes, Father, I’m going.” It came out normal enough to her ears, but the pair of wizards exchanged glances with their eyebrows raised.

“Come here,” Pollux commanded, setting down his own goblet on the counter. “Please excuse me, Reginald. I’ll be just a moment.”

“Of course, of course…”

With a heavy sigh, Walburga rose from her seat, stumbled, and nearly fell flat on her face. Swell—if they hadn’t suspected she was drunk yet, they surely did now. Pollux strode forward, grasped his daughter’s upper arm, and dragged her out of the kitchen.

On their way up the stairs, her nosy old ancestors in the portraits on the wall began to whisper excitedly. Their entertainment consisted solely of watching her or her brothers land themselves in trouble, which played out regularly, episodically like a radio series.

Everything was blurred and tilting until Pollux stopped short and spun her around to face him. Swallowing champagne mixed with half-digested potatoes and salad, she steadied herself and raised her eyes to her father’s glowering face.

“Look at you, stumbling about like a stupid, drunken trollop,” he snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, I’m just swell,” she blurted, knowing she wasn’t to talk back but not quite caring. Until a sharp smack came to her temple, throwing her sideways and eliciting a yelp.

“Did I tell you to answer back? Girl, look at me.”

Suddenly stone-sober, Walburga stood upright and looked him in his grey eyes devoid of anything other than pure contempt. He took her refusal to cry as an act of defiance, clutching her jaw and bearing his teeth as he snarled, “One day very soon you’ll pay the price for your outlandish behavior, you silly little bitch. Now get into bed—I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the evening.”

He left a stunned Walburga in the corridor, thundering down the stairs without sparing her a glance. _Do not cry, don’t you dare cry… _At last, she managed to stave off the tears until she locked her bedroom door behind her.

They flooded her face as she hurled herself onto her bed and let the sobs loose. _Silly little bitch_. There wasn’t anyone in the entire world Walburga hated more than Pollux Black and yet he had so much power over her, not just financial and familial but emotional. That was what she hated the most, him knowing that and dismissing her so cruelly.

A knock on the door jolted her out of her misery and silenced her crying at once. “Walburga?” a girlish voice called through the door. “Are you in there?”

If it was Lucretia, the knob would’ve been turning, but this one didn’t touch it. “Walburga?” she tried again. Semele Selwyn, it sounded like, but why on Earth would she seek out her nemesis?

The question was not compelling enough for Walburga to answer her. She lie still, breathing into her quilt until she heard the click of high heels fading away.

Walburga sighed and turned on her back. An absurd sequence of events played in her head, a fantasy: Apparating to Hogsmeade, sneaking into Hogwarts, finding Riddle probably in the library, and demanding he take her to that room on the fifth floor. Of course, she wasn’t _that _rash, as upset as she was.

She reached up to wipe a clump of hair from her face, wincing as her fingertips grazed her temple, which was puffed out and throbbing. Merlin, did she hate her father. Hated being a pureblood witch, even, if this was her reward for it. Rather than dwell any further, she directed her mind toward Riddle again.

_What about me, baby? Can you please me? _A burst of need tore through her, starting between her legs and fanning outward, prompting her to lift her robes. Hell, no point in having them on anymore, so she pulled them over her head, loosening her hair from the gold pins and tossing them aside. The bra followed, along with the girdle, shoes, and hose. At last, she was sliding her knickers down.

_Proper witches are chaste, leaving brute urges to wizards and muggles_, Walburga remembered hearing somewhere, but the words ran through her head in a monotone, meaningless. Only Riddle’s imagined voice and hands took over as she reached between her legs and rubbed out the frustration and longing and desire until she went limp, splattered with fluid. She should’ve fetched her nightdress, but pure exhaustion held her in place.

After another minute lying bare, catching her breath, she yanked the quilt up to her neck and closed her eyes. Despite the throbbing on the side of her face slowly returning, she fell into a deep sleep.

✧

Abraxas sat at his desk, resting his chin on his hand propped up by his elbow. In front of him was an essay he was supposed to be writing for Transfiguration that would be marked “to OWL standards,” like Dumbledore hadn’t high standards in the first place. So far, the essay consisted of one sentence: _The Elemental Properties of water are considered to be the strongest in the known universe. _

_Why? _Dumbledore asked in his head. Trouble was, Abraxas hadn’t an idea why. The textbook could probably tell him but he couldn’t muster the energy to reach into his schoolbag. Easier to simply sit and ruminate over Avery even though that wasn’t any more enjoyable than writing an essay.

Abraxas heaved a sigh and raised his arms to stretch. He hadn’t seen Avery since the Boxing Day feast at the House of Black. Avery had thoroughly ignored him, flirting heavily with Lucretia Black, but once in a while, Abraxas had caught him glancing his way out of the corner of his eye and more frequently as the night went on. Unless Abraxas was so desperate for contact that he’d imagined it all.

He shook his head and picked up the quill. Enough replaying the same rubbish over and over; time to get back to work. He didn’t understand why on Earth it was suddenly so difficult to write an essay, as he’d written so many before that had pleased even Dumbledore. Abraxas’ marks were perhaps the one area in his life he didn’t have to put much effort in. Then why the difficulty? Perhaps he should leave it and try again tomorrow before getting back on the Hogwarts Express. But then he still had to pack—

A _whoosh _cut off his thoughts, bringing a breeze from the open window, blowing his parchment off the desk. Startled, Abraxas spun around just as a great grey owl dropped a letter onto his lap on its way back out the window.

He’d never seen the owl before so it belonged to neither Felix Lestrange nor Annie Messier. The former had sent him a French newspaper article about Grindelwald while the latter sent a short note, stiff and likely under her parents’ direction.

_Abraxas Malfoy_, the envelope said in somewhat obnoxious calligraphy. However, he recognized the loping scrawl of the letter inside:

_Dearest Abraxas, _

_I’d like very much if you could accompany me to La Mer on 11-19 Diagon Alley this evening at eight o’clock. _

_Sincerely,_

_James Avery _

“What the…?” Abraxas’ heart was lifting, a broad grin stretching his lips for the first time in days. _Avery wanted to see him_. To hell with the essay; he’d finish it eventually. Now it was time to get ready.

A bath, selection of robes, and careful styling of his hair took up an hour, so Abraxas Apparated near Diagon Alley and strode confidently to the wall of bricks to tap his wand. In the inn, quite a few witches eyed him up but he paid them no mind. As long as Avery liked what he saw…

He did, if the flash of lust in his eyes was any indication. They shook hands, already wrapped in sexual tension. “Nice to see you, mate. Shall we go in? I’ve got a table for us already.”

Inside was dimly lit but its immaculate interior made the glow warm and intimate rather than dingy. At the far end, a saxophone dragged out soothing notes. The waiters were dressed in all black, white cloths folded over their arms.

“Monsieur Avery,” said one next to the table they approached. “Would you and your friend like a bottle of our finest champagne?”

“Of course,” Avery told him. For a heated second, his hand was on Abraxas’ back, guiding him gently. Too soon, he took it away and sat down.

Abraxas followed suit and glanced around. In a restaurant with such a romantic atmosphere, surely someone would be wondering what two wizards were playing at, dining along together. Yet no one seemed to think it was the least bit odd. The surrounding tables were occupied by pairs with mixed or the same gender, while a larger table near the saxophone seemed to be holding a Ministry dinner party, its attendees chatting amicably. His ear caught French from the wizard-witch couple next to them—perhaps the French had different rules.

The waiter returned with champagne and rolls of cheese, ready to take their order. In flawless French, Avery ordered their entrees, which turned out to be some sea creature parts in pasta and butter sauce. At first, the slimy texture revolted Abraxas, but not wanting to look like an uncultured arse in front of Avery, he ate it anyway. After a few more bites, it became more palatable.

The meal passed perfectly, with champagne and casual conversation, like they were simply mates from Hogwarts without this odd history. Only once did Abraxas see a flash of desire in Avery’s eyes indicating otherwise, and it was very fleeting, perhaps imagined.

Mostly, the conversation revolved around Grindelwald, who was suspected to have gone east to take advantage of chaos caused by a gigantic muggle war, one that spanned across countries and was responsible for the explosions in London somehow. Abraxas was thankful he lived in Wiltshire and not in London like many families he knew, including the Blacks.

“Pierre, please have the next bottle delivered to the suite on the third floor,” Avery told the waiter, dropping a sack of galleons on the table as he rose. “And keep the change.”

“Of course, Monsieur Avery.”

Abraxas followed Avery out to the patio, which was caked with snow except for a stone pathway to a door with a lantern over it. “Come,” said Avery, placing his hand on Abraxas’ back again, unfortunately not felt much through his cloak.

Atop the restaurant was a hotel, apparently, with only a few rooms. Avery had reserved the largest spanning the entire third floor. It was all gold and white, with a large bed wrapped in silk sheets, a table topped with grey marble, and two leather stools around it. A bottle of champagne and two glasses were atop it, so Avery headed straight there to pour the drinks.

“Abraxas, play a record, will you?”

In the corner was a handsome record player with a grooved disc already settled inside it. Abraxas wound it up and set the needle. Soothing jazz filled the room, working in tandem with the champagne to calm his nerves.

Avery, who’d also had quite a few glasses in the restaurant, swayed in his seat along with the music, grinning. Abraxas felt his flushed cheeks stretched with his own grin, giddiness coursing through his entire body. When the next song came on, Avery stood on somewhat wobbly knees and held out his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

At first it was awkward, for Abraxas had only danced with petite Ananke Messier. Not only was Avery larger, he was more dominant, grasping the younger boy’s hand and guiding him firmly in step. In contrast, Avery’s facial expression was of amusement, a perpetual small grin in place. As the song played on, the spark of lust in his eyes intensified.

“Come,” he said as soon as the music paused. “Over here.” He pulled Abraxas forward rather forcefully in the direction of the bed. Avery beat him to it, sitting on the edge and patting his knee.

Abraxas happily obliged, even more happy when he felt the bulge in Avery’s trousers against his knee. The elder did not waste time, gripping the back of Abraxas’ head and mauling his mouth, his hand snaking between his legs.

Abraxas was too preoccupied with their tongues and lips and the hand gripping his head to pay any mind to the undoing of his trousers. Then the focus switched to Avery’s other hand closing around his exposed erection and starting to pump.

“Baby Malfoy has been dying for Master’s touch, yes?” Avery hissed in his ear, hot breath burning Abraxas’ flushed cheek.

“Yes, Master,” Abraxas breathed, closing his eyes. Just as he was about to let go of consciousness and give into the sensory overload, Avery took his hands away and pushed Abraxas off his lap.

Leather loafers prevented his rear from slamming into the wood. Bewildered, he looked up at Avery, who was undoing his own trousers.

“Ah-uh, Baby Malfoy needs to please Master just a bit more to receive his own pleasure.”

Abraxas knew then that Avery expected him to take him into his mouth. The idea was at once arousing, horrifying, and sobering. His own erection was continually stiff, but his stomach churned, bringing up a vague hint of garlic in his throat.

_We’re freaks, Abraxas. _

“No,” he whispered, leaning back and covering his face. _No, no, don’t let it through! _Too late: his shoulders shook and bent forward, reducing him to a cowering mess at Avery’s feet.

“Abraxas.” Only surprise, no traces of impatience or rancor. This was still not enough to pull Abraxas together; the tears refused to cease. _For heaven’s sake, get ahold of yourself!_

“Abraxas.” Avery’s tone was softer now, his presence enveloping him as firm hands took hold of his shoulders. “Come, come sit here.”

Abraxas heaved himself onto the bed and wiped his cheeks. The sorrow wouldn’t abate, his chest clenching and unclenching. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice garbled and pathetic.

The arm around his shoulders pulled him closer, resting his head in the crook of Avery’s neck. “It’s alright, mate,” the elder assured him. “Nothing to make a fuss over.”

The words were delivered so calmly, blending into the slow melody playing in the background, that Abraxas instantly believed him, letting his body sag into him. “I’m not ready yet,” he managed to blurt after a second of his breath hitching up and settling.

“Yes, that is obvious,” Avery teased, releasing him and nudging him to lie down.

Under the duvet, down to their drawers, the boys lie side by side, each in their own heads. Avery lifted his wand and lazily flicked it at the needle of the record player, pushing it away and stopping the music.

Abraxas closed his eyes, about to succumb to the haze of stupor when he felt Avery’s hand on his cheek. It pulled him into his embrace again, this time with Avery’s leg slung over his. Abraxas’ stomach twisted—did Avery still want something sexual? But Avery was simply lying there, his hand loosely cupping Abraxas’ cheek.

Abraxas could’ve stayed like that, the world spinning around them, without them, just letting them be. He knew that in the morning, life would revert sharply back to normal. They would climb aboard the Hogwarts Express with their mates and pretend they meant hardly anything to each other.

Now, though, they could remain entwined together, floating on a warm cloud. Abraxas slipped his arm around Avery’s waist and nuzzled into his chest, breathing in his intoxicating scent.

✦

Alright, Tom told himself, proceed as rehearsed. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back near the door of Slughorn’s office, watching the wizard raise his massive form out of the winged armchair and plod over to his desk.

Many hours’ worth of planning over the past few weeks came to head at this very spot. Tom had done well with the crystallized pineapple and the nodding along with Slughorn’s Ministry-related boasts. This was the absolute optimal time—after a holiday and a few glasses of wine, before the stress of term set in—to catch the man in a pliable enough state.

Tom took a heavy step forward, his shoe scuffing against the stone floor. Slughorn heard it and turned around, raising his eyebrows.

“Look sharp, Tom. You don’t want to be caught out of bed after hours, and you’re a prefect…”

Translation: this had better be compelling. “Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away.”

“Sir, I wondered what you know…about horcruxes?”

Slughorn stilled in place, eyeing him up. “Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?”

If only you could be so lucky, Tom answered in his head. Slughorn wasn’t fool enough to believe Merrythought expected her classes to be anything other than ignorant to such dark magic. “Not exactly, sir. I came across the term while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.”

“No, well you’d be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that’ll give you details about horcruxes, Tom,”—didn’t Tom know it—“that’s very dark stuff, very dark stuff indeed.”

But he was going to tell Tom all about it, provided Tom proceeded according to his calculations. “But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—I mean if you can’t tell me, obviously—” _Of course you can, and you will_. “I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could—so I just thought I’d ask—”

Yes, nice and humble in that perfect, docile tone, that _no, Mrs. Cole, I don’t know what happened, Professor Dumbledore _that had gotten him this far.

“Well…” said Slughorn, breaking eye contact and reaching for the box of crystallized pineapple. Merlin, had that been a good idea; this whole encounter was going beautifully. “Well, it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so you understand the term. A horcrux is a word used for an object in which a person has concealed a part of their soul.”

Tom knew all of this, of course, but if Slughorn knew that, he would start questioning Tom’s motives. “I don’t quite understand how that works, sir.”

The book was fully opened now. Slughorn told him in plain language, concluding with, “Very few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”

Not to me, Tom couldn’t say. “How do you split your soul?”

“Well…” Slughorn was stepping closer to his limit but was not quite there yet. “You must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

What Slughorn was ignorant of was that only the most powerful could test the boundaries of nature. But to him, for now and the immediate future, he had to believe Tom was simply a curious sixth-year student.

“But how do you do it?” _Tell me, grant yourself immunity and embed yourself into my quest_.

“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By committing murder, killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion—”

“Encase? But how—?”

“There is a spell, do not ask me, I do not know!” This was where Slughorn’s knowledge ended and he was frustrated about not having the answer in addition to uncomfortable about the topic. “Do I look as though I’ve tried it—do I look like a killer?”

“No, sir, of course not,” Tom assured him. Time to play contrite: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

The professor calmed, setting his wine glass down. “Not at all, not offended… It’s natural to feel curious about these things. Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic.”

The perfect opportunity, handed to Tom on a silver platter. Now the real question remained: “What I don’t understand, though—just out of curiosity—I mean, how would one horcrux be of much use? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more places?” He was nearly bubbling over, laying out all the cards, half-desperate for the answer he’d been seeking all this time. “I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most magically powerful number, wouldn’t seven—?”

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” Slughorn was at his limit, widened eyes bulging at Tom. “Seven! Isn’t it enough to think of killing one person? And in any case, enough to divide the soul...but to rip it in seven pieces…”

Naturally, even wizards with Slughorn’s skill guarded their souls as if they were the most sacred possession and they were, if one hadn’t the magical strength to accompany it. Tom had suspected that and here was proof that no wizard would dare to go after pure, unbridled power.

However, it would not do well for Slughorn to know that, especially when he was staring at Tom like he’d suddenly pulled off a mask to reveal Gellert Grindelwald. Tom kept his face neutral and held Slughorn’s gaze, still feigning innocent curiosity.

Eventually, Slughorn relented, turning toward the fire. “Of course, this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic…”

“Yes, of course, sir,” Tom reassured him. _Whatever gets you to sleep at night._

“But all the same, Tom, keep it quiet, what I’ve told—that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know… Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it…”

Dumbledore, the only wizard who might have had enough power to pursue immortality, but he was too much of a sentimental old fool. That was only an advantage for Tom, only secured his spot at the top of the chain.

"I won't say a word, sir." _As long as you won't, either. Our little secret, Professor. _

Slughorn nodded weakly, dismissing him, knowing he’d gone too far. Tom would have to play saint particularly well this term, but it was worth it to obtain this valuable information.

Uncontained, a broad smile crossed his face as he strode through the classroom, fireworks of elation bursting in his chest. No one had ever made more than one horcrux—Tom would be the first to pioneer into that territory. Only one slim shred of doubt dulled his confidence: Would it work? Was his soul strong enough to withstand it?

Of course it was. Tom’s soul had experienced more pain and fear and general activity than the totality of Magical Britain. It had grown as he had grown, and yearned for security as he had all these years. If Tom was fully sure of nothing else, it was that his soul did not want to leave Earth by any means.

His fingers clasped around Gaunt’s ring as he headed to the common room, stroking the smooth onyx. Soon it would be alive and sacred, infinitely more powerful than the sum of its parts, an assurance that Tom alone would reign supreme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue in Tom’s POV is JKR’s, taken directly from p. 496-499 of the American edition of HBP.


	8. Welcome to Heartbreak

Abraxas took his usual place at the Slytherin table for breakfast, giving Avery the usual sideways glance, which, as usual, went ignored. Another dreadful start to another rubbish day. He picked up the fork and stabbed at his eggs, keeping his head down.

He couldn’t help but wonder how it was even possible to hold someone so tenderly only to discard them so blatantly a week later. Did their encounters mean nothing at all? Abraxas felt like he and Avery were playing one long, convoluted game of Exploding Snap with the latter, every so often, just getting up and walking away, leaving the former to wonder about his next move. And if Abraxas was quite honest, he was getting sick of it.

“Have you seen this?” Icarus Yaxley asked as he joined the group with one hop over the bench. Pushing the plate of food away, he slammed down a newspaper and pointed to the front page. “This bloke finished Hogwarts only a couple years ago, yeah?”

They all leaned in to look. From Abraxas’ angle, he could only see the corner of a photograph on the front page of _The Daily Prophet_.

“Yes,” Lestrange confirmed. “That’s Alexander McElroy.”

The others nodded along. Riddle leaned back and Abraxas was able to read the headline: UK ‘MAGIC ARMY’ SUPPORTS GRINDELWALD.

Yaxley shook his head. “I don’t remember him. He’s not a Sacred 28, is he?”

Lestrange exchanged glances with Mulciber, who shrugged. “I think his mum is. His father ran off with a muggle, remember that scandal?”

“So is that what the Knights are part of, then? The Magic Army?”

“Hush, don’t speak of that _here_, prat…”

Abraxas was just about to tune out the conversation when Riddle spoke up. “The Knights are working independently of the Magic Army, but the two are not in rivalry.”

Of course no one questioned Riddle, so they turned back to their plates. Abraxas should’ve been asking himself why and how Riddle was the authority of everything these days, but he didn’t much care. The heavy fog of dejection filled his lungs and coated them with sticky sorrow.

Another week passed and Abraxas couldn’t stand it anymore. After a game of cards in the common room, he followed Avery to the seventh-year dormitory, happy to see that they were alone in the corridor.

“Oi, Avery,” he said in his most casual voice. “How was your holiday, mate?” He looked at him full-on, expecting a sly smile or a wink.

He got neither; Avery kept his gaze blank, eyes straying ahead. “Alright, and yours?”

“Just well,” Abraxas answered a bit too enthusiastically. They were approaching the turn to the seventh-year corridor, so if Avery didn’t say anything now, all hope was lost. He realized his hands were shaking.

“Glad to hear it, mate,” said Avery blandly, still not looking at Abraxas. “See you around.” With that, he turned into the corridor and disappeared, not glancing back even once.

Abraxas’ chest clenched so hard, he had to hold himself upright with a hand against the cool stone wall. The disappointment was squeezing every one of his organs, wringing out all hope. The one upside of growing up under Cassius Malfoy was Abraxas’ skill in suppressing the urge to cry, which he put all his force into as he continued to the fifth-year dormitory in slow, labored steps.

His blank expression convinced Cygnus and Orion Black well enough, for they simply nodded at him when he entered. They were discussing something in low voices, but Abraxas again tuned them out. Later that night, after he’d pumped his erection thinking of that evening—which clearly had been a dream—Abraxas let the tears flood his face.

What had he done? What had gone wrong? The questions plagued him constantly into February, driving him half-mental. Meanwhile, OWL preparation stacked itself onto his shoulders and his heart grew heavier with each ignored glance. Eventually, a few days before Valentine’s Day, Abraxas swore to ignore Avery like Avery had been ignoring him. Let him taste his own potion for a change.

✧

Valentine’s Day was, in Walburga’s opinion, the worst holiday ever created in the history of humankind. Couples had every bloody day to celebrate with each other, while those alone were mandated to feel even more lonely on the 14th of February. The only small consolation was that none of the boys acknowledged Lucretia, either.

Truth be told, Walburga wanted only the smallest gesture from Riddle, but that was nonsense; they were not going steady. But for heaven’s sake, she’d given him her virginity, so it would’ve been nice to receive _something_. Of course, Riddle ignored her at meal times, the only time they saw each other.

After Herbology, the last lesson of this awful day, Walburga placed her wormvine under the heat lamp, careful not to disturb it, for it was prone to nipping her fingers. Her hands were already scratched and caked with dirt from repotting. She decided to wash them in the castle, not wanting them to freeze off in the face-biting winds over the grounds. Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her fur cloak, she ducked her head and left the greenhouses behind a group of slow-moving Hufflepuffs.

A long bath and hot cup of tea was her plan until she entered the castle, welcoming the blast of heat in her cold-reddened face, and ran nearly straight into a young Slytherin boy. Something Murdoch he was called, a troublemaker and a loudmouth, though now he simply handed her a letter and said, “Here.”

“Er, thank you,” she said to his retreating form, and he gave a hum of acknowledgement. She tucked the letter in her cloak and headed straight to the seventh-year dormitory with a bounce in her step. Perhaps Riddle was gracing her with his elusive affections after all.

Or perhaps not, since the envelope wasn’t even addressed to her. _Lucretia Black_, she read immediately upon pulling it out from her cloak. That stupid Murdoch. How could such an insignificant bean not be able to tell the two most prominent young witches in Magical Britain apart?

This did not mean that Walburga wouldn’t use the mix-up to her advantage. Carefully, she set the envelope on the desk and ran her wand across the seal. It came loose, allowing her to slip the letter out without a struggle.

_14 February 1944_

_Dearest Lucretia, _

_It pains me to see all of these hearts and flowers, knowing I can’t dedicate them all to you. All day I am dreaming of your beautiful face and melodic voice. I replay it at night before I sleep, hoping to hear it in my dreams. This has not yet happened, but I am sustained by your sweet smile. _

_I am aware that what you’ve told me in Hogsmeade is true. Now is really not the time for us to be together. I fear with your status and beauty, you’ll find someone more suited for you. This also pains me, but I refuse to prepare for that with the hope that I will win you at last. _

_Until our next meeting in Hogsmeade, fair lady, which I look forward to immensely. _

_Sincerely,_

_Ignatius_

“What on Earth…?” Walburga muttered out loud, frowning hard at the controlled, masculine script. Who in the name of Merlin was Ignatius? The only one by that name at Hogwarts was a younger-year Gryffindor, Ignatius Prewett. His father, Head of the Muggle Liaison Office, often spoke out against Grindelwald’s claims of muggle inferiority, earning the Prewetts a reputation as blood-traitors. That could not be who Lucretia was apparently meeting in Hogsmeade.

Walburga knew she should re-seal the letter, give it to Lucretia, and wait for her to explain the correspondence on her own. But if she was indeed consorting with a known blood-traitor, she’d deny it to hell.

Holding the letter in her fist, she hunted down her cousin, who was in the Great Hall with her two sycophants, Semele Selwyn and Ananke Messier. “Lucretia, may I have a word?” Walburga waved the letter as a warning.

“About what?”

Semele and Ananke were listening with interest, eyes on the letter. Contrarily, Ananke’s sister seated across from them was scribbling on a piece of parchment, unaware of her surroundings. “Perhaps you’d like to speak in private?” Walburga asked pointedly.

“Well, we’re in the middle of tea.” Lucretia gestured to the kettle, the wave of her hand rather sharp, as if to dismiss Walburga. “Surely we can discuss it here?”

“As you wish.” At least Walburga had tried to give Lucretia a chance to save her arse. “Who is this Ignatius writing to you about”—with a flourish, she flicked her wrist to open the parchment and squinted at it—“your ‘beautiful face and melodic voice’? Evidently, you’ve been giving him your ‘sweet smiles’ and meeting him in Hogsmeade?”

“None of your business,” Lucretia replied smoothly, extending a hand. “I’ll take that, if you will. And for Merlin’s sake, Walburga, your hands are filthy. What on Earth have you been doing?”

Walburga clutched the letter to her chest and shook her head, ignoring her question. “Please tell me this is not the Ignatius I think it is.”

Her cousin merely raised a perfectly-arched brow.

_“Prewett.”_

Lucretia waved her hand again. “And if it is? Prewett is a descendant of the Sacred 28, dear cousin. He is as pure as they come.”

“Not if his parents fill his head with muggle-loving rubbish,” Walburga told her.

“Oh, please,” Lucretia snapped, rolling her eyes. “Do you really want to have this conversation again, _Wally_? Considering you’re the one with an infatuation with a half-blood?”

Irritation grated Walburga’s nerves, tugging her hand toward her wand, but no, she had to be better than that. “I’m not ‘infatuated’ with anyone, Lucretia. Tom Riddle and I were simply fulfilling a duty to attend Professor Slughorn’s party.”

“Oh?” Lucretia’s lips parted, her eyes widened in mock-surprise. “Is that why he’s left you a bundle of roses on your bed?”

“He—what?” Walburga blurted, thrown off. “No, he hasn’t—I was just there.” But she hadn’t looked at her bed tucked between the hangings, for she’d overslept and ran out of time to make it properly.

Lucretia was appraising her triumphantly, her expression mirrored in Messier but oddly not Selwyn. The latter was frowning, lip between her teeth, an unfamiliar look in her eyes. Almost like unease. Jealousy, Walburga surmised with a tinge of her own triumph.

“She’s besotted with that Riddle,” she heard Lucretia tell the others with disgust, but she ignored it.

Lucretia had not been lying: on Walburga’s half-made bed lay a dozen roses. Her heart rose yet again, jolts of excitement circulating through her blood. So he hadn’t used her and thrown her aside after all. Did he think about that night in that strange room as often as she did?

Doubtful, as Walburga thought about it every night, in the bathtub or bed or both, letting her hand slide up her thigh. In fact, that was precisely what she felt like doing now, pulling of her robes, flopping on her bed, roses splayed across her chest, legs spread…

No, she could not indulge now; Lucretia was likely on her way to see Walburga’s reaction to the flowers. Walburga set them in a vase, filled it with water, and washed her hands, a better idea hatching in her mind. Perhaps she could find Riddle and “thank” him.

As predicted, Lucretia appeared, alone, just as Walburga was coming out of the loo. “Thanks so much for speaking of my personal life to the entire Slytherin table,” she snapped. “Between your slovenly habits and big mouth, I’ve had about enough of you lately.”

Walburga rolled her eyes and snatched up her lipstick, turning to the mirror. “A right drama queen you are. I suggested we speak in private, but your precious girlfriends can’t crawl out of your arse for a minute, can they?”

In the reflection, she saw Lucretia wrinkle her nose. “You’re so _crass_. Could you possibly go five minutes without embarrassing me?”

Something in Walburga snapped without warning; she slammed down the lipstick and whirled around, glowering at the other. “_I’m _embarrassing you? You don’t think it’s embarrassing enough sitting in my own damn dining hall on Boxing Day, listening to my own father berate me because I’m not exactly like you? While you sit there like a stupid, blinking _bimbo_, relishing in my woe?”

Lucretia opened her mouth but paused, the words apparently escaping her. Mashing her lips together, Walburga pushed past her to the corridor.

“Where are you going?” followed her.

“None of your business,” she shot back loudly, striding to the common room.

Her plan was to find Riddle and guide him to the room on the fifth floor so he could abate the hunger coursing through her entire body. Unfortunately, she couldn’t find him anywhere. All of his mates were in the common room, but he’d pulled one of his vanishing acts. She waited by the fire, ignoring Selwyn and the Messiers for about an hour, hoping he was merely on prefect rounds. Curfew came and went and another hour ticked by, the others slowly trickling to the dormitories until she was left by herself.

With a dejected sigh, Walburga returned to the seventh-year dormitory, keeping her head turned away from Lucretia as she gathered her towel and nightdress for her bath.

✦

In the vast room tucked away on the fifth floor, the table was pushed against the wall to make room for a large circle drawn on the stone floor with chalk. In between that and the table, a thick tome titled _Secrets of the Darkest Arts _lie open to page 364, the 17th section titled _Soul Magic_. This particular section had been perused so many times, the pages had grown soft, the ink faded in some spots.

On the second open page, facing the ceiling, a gothic-style bold read HORCRUXES.

Since Tom had completed the procedure successfully once before, he remembered the steps, but he had to be a hundred percent sure of them. This was his soul he was handling here, not some potion or charm. He traced the circle with chalk once more, stark white against faded grey, and crouched in the middle facing north. On his hands and knees, he moved to the edge of the circle and drew a smaller one just outside of it.

After three more smaller circles—east, west, and south—he set candles in each. Then came the objects: first, in the south circle, was a slightly-rusted metal yo-yo he’d stolen from one of the brats at Wool’s many years ago.

_Place an object in the south circle which symbolizes the past soul-piece you wish to remove. _

Tom set the yo-yo in the circle and pointed his wand at the candle. _“Incendio.” _Then he rummaged in his bag for a heavy, cloth-wrapped object.

_To the west, place an object symbolic of your mortality, to remind you that death awaits you if you fail. _

He peeled away the cloth, wrinkling his nose from the smell escaping it. The griffin skull had been collected from the Forbidden Forest and washed of blood, dirt, and bits of skin. Yet the stench of death remained, burning into his nose even after he’d set it in the circle, lit the candle, and crawled away.

_To the east, place an essence of a virgin, a being of youth, health, and fertility._

Tom slipped his hands in the pocket of his robes and withdrew a small envelope. Carefully, he opened it to take out a chestnut lock of Semele Selwyn’s hair, placing it gently in the circle.

Last and most important was the north circle. _To the north, place the object in which you intend to encase your soul. It is recommended that you place extra protective enchantments upon the object and conceal it in a safe location._

With a damp hand, he pulled the Gaunt ring off his finger and set it on the floor within the circle. The candle was lit but the set-up was not yet complete: he withdrew from his robes a small burgundy sack.

The powder matched the deep red of the sack, letting out small wisps as he gingerly poured it over the chalk, enclosing the ring in its own pronounced circle. It had been quite hard to obtain and Tom would need it another three times. Thus, he moved slowly, gently tapping the sack despite his hands shaking and his heart pounding.

When he lit the candle, a sharp pain in his chest sent him reeling backward, sucking a hard breath through his teeth. For a moment, he was locked in place, bent double from the pain searing through his limbs. His breath was stuck in his throat, refusing to budge, while the pressure in his ears slammed through his head.

_Bloody hell, what is this, make it stop, mother of God… _

Finally, his chest was loosening, allowing him to breathe. Wincing, he pulled himself upright and rubbed his temples. His heart thudded on, his body shook and the ringing still pierced his ears, but at least he could function. His soul, he realized, held onto the memory of the last horcrux, of being ripped from his body.

“We’ve all got to sacrifice,” he muttered to himself, a phrase Mrs. Cole, head matron of Wool’s, was fond of saying. As he crawled to the center of the circle, he glared at the old yo-yo. Another aspect of his wretched past he’d be glad to get rid of.

_Before making a horcrux, the soul must be at least partially severed, necessitating the act of murder. It is the motivation for this murder which will determine the soul-piece that is contained. The soul is dynamic, switching form in response to activity. However, it will remain torn unless its owner seeks to mend it. _

Fat chance of that—Tom’s intention had been to tear it for the horcrux. The murder of his traitorous father had been a bonus, an addition to a fond memory in his scarce bank.

He closed his eyes and pictured the large manor house atop the hill in quiet Little Hangleton. As appealing as the idea of recalling the murder was, he was required to move backward.

_Call forth your motivation and the events setting it in place, each as a brick in the wall built into the ground. _

That was rather easy; all he had to do was go back as far as he could remember, since his entire life prior to Hogwarts was a sodding, ugly mess. Easy enough to picture Wool’s, the baby area with the beds lined up, wrapped in stiff, scratchy sheets. His head itched, recalling the lice crawling through his hair while the scent of urine and old porridge filled his nose. All those stupid, sniveling little muggle boys whinging about _I want to play _and _I miss Mummy_.

Though, here in the circle, Tom had to admit that the last one, although it had never left his lips, cried out in his head many times. _Mummy…why? _The pang in his chest sharpened into anger: she had been a witch; she could’ve saved herself. And him. Or the very least, left him somewhere other than filthy, war-torn muggle London.

Back to Wool’s—the sniveling kids, the constant scrapples, the soupy porridge that never filled his stomach entirely… Tom’s experience was far more miserable than his peers, for he was always the strange one, the bad one. Now he knew those foolish muggles were simply ignorant of his greatness, feared the vestiges of it he let slip through. But as a small child he hadn’t known about his power, just his oddity, compounded when they’d dragged him to that muggle quack to “examine” him.

_You will never be loved. They will never love you. _

Even now, locked away in only his drawers, Tom could not let go of his rage. “They don’t need to love you,” he growled. “Fear works just as well, even more so.” He’d told himself this many times and believed it with every ounce of his being, and yet something remained unconvinced—the soul piece he had to bring out.

_You will never be loved_—but he had been, once, fleetingly. Cradled in someone’s arms. He’d seen her in Mrs. Cole’s mind, a hunched, wretched figure with lank hair and unwashed robes.

_She’s not from around here, _Mrs. Cole had told a matron sometime after her death. _Perhaps from the circus. _

The girl, not much older than Tom was now, had been awkward and wobbling, begging for help. Mrs. Cole and the other matron had helped her give birth and placed the swaddled baby in her arms.

_His name shall be Tom Marvolo Riddle_. His mother’s voice was weak and childlike, much like herself, but this was spoken with conviction. _Tom after his father, Marvolo after my father_. Was she stupid and sentimental, or was she giving him the tools to his ancestry? She’d cradled him in her arms and smiled at him. The one person who had ever been happy Tom was alive, and she’d died an hour after he was born. _Mummy, why?_

A piercing ache was coursing through his body. Raising his heavy arms to the ceiling, Tom closed his eyes and began to chant: _“Anime, me relinque.”_

His flesh crawled; an overwhelming vibration spread through his chest and up his arms. He repeated the phrase twice more. An excruciating pain started somewhere around his heart, tolerable at first but increasing in intensity until he was gritting his teeth, fighting with all his might not to bend double. Black swirls of smoke left his fingertips, pulling him forward, closer to the ring.

_Mummy, why? _He knew why—_him_. The repugnant louse she’d named him after. He recalled the manor house, stark black against the star-studded sky except for the large windows in the parlor, where Tom Riddle the senior drank his final cup of tea.

Since now was the time to be honest with himself, Tom allowed the childish hope of his father accepting him to return. The muggle had not, also ignorant of his son’s greatness. It didn’t matter now and yet the wound of the rejection lingered upon him.

The smoke was hovering over him now, tugging at him, amplifying the pain in his chest. A shrill ringing filled his ears while his eyes squeezed shut so hard he saw white static.

_“Anime, me relinque!” _he shouted, shaking hard from keeping himself upright. Ringing and whispers and smoke filled his airways, choking him. _Deeply disturbed… His name shall be Tom Marvolo Riddle… Tom after his father… Perhaps from the circus… _Dumbledore’s voice: _You are a wizard…what is it you can do? _Followed by this father’s: _Who are you? Get out of my house!_

“Time to die, Father,” Tom whispered. _Father _now represented the ugly sorrow tearing through him, weakening him, and it mattered not the hurt and the anguish and the _Merlin, please make it stop _because it was leaving, finally leaving, consuming him with blinding white on its way out—

All was still. Tom opened his eyes and found the floor an inch away, his nose pressed against it. He was covered in sweat, yet he was shivering violently, muscles screaming with pain. After at least a minute of gasping and heaving, he managed to pull himself upright.

The ring was exactly where he’d left it, the powder now scattered all over the floor. Tom realized tears were flooding his cheeks, but he didn’t try to stop them. Through the ache and the tremors jerking his body around, he crawled over to the ring, closed his fingers around it, and brought it to his lips.

Against his soft, bitten-raw skin, he felt the faint _tick tick tick _of a beating heart. Though it emanated that dreadful sorrow, clinging to him, he let it rest there, soothed by the pulse within the gold. His second horcrux.

He’d done it. He was now, at age 17, the most powerful sorcerer who had ever lived. Tears continued to leak from his eyes, but they were tinged with joy, reigning over the hurt.


	9. Heads Will Roll

An uneventful spring break passed and Tom was almost back to normal. His hands still shook and his ears rang, but that didn’t distract him from exams, nor prefect duties, nor any of the other responsibilities that came with establishing power over the Hogwarts student body. Slughorn had let slip last meeting that Tom was next in line for Head Boy.

“Good afternoon, Madam Elspeth,” he called to the librarian as he strode by the desk. She did not reply. No matter; she would not question what quiet, studious Tom Riddle was doing in the library. He kept walking straight ahead to where the books were older and barely touched. He breathed in the familiar scent of leather, allowing a small smirk to stretch his lips.

An irreversible exchange of power had taken place between Tom and Slughorn that night when the professor gave his student forbidden information: The old wizard was overly flattering, nearly sycophantic. It was both sad and amusing, more so the latter to Tom. He’d proven that the staff at Hogwarts would bend to his will.

The Restricted Section was so deep into the library that only lanterns with flames that must have been enchanted to flicker eternally lined the walls. He found the gap in one of the old shelves and returned _Secrets of the Darkest Arts _back into its rightful place.

He’d thought about keeping it for himself but decided it was not worth the effort. Not when in the future Hogwarts would be his and he could peruse the library any time he pleased. Thus, he brushed the dust from his robes and walked slowly down the aisle, thinking of what else he could do in private, since the majority of students were in Hogsmeade. Including all the Slytherins, so he’d have the common room all to himself.

Not all Slytherins, he found out when he turned down the aisle to his right and saw a flash of dark green robes and a Mary Jane. A Slytherin girl had been sneaking up on Tom and he had a good idea who.

“Good afternoon, Walburga,” he called in his most pleasant voice.

The faint tapping of her footsteps ceased as she stood still and let him catch up to her. At the sight of her standing in the aisle like a doe face-to-face with her hunter, he grew aroused almost instantly.

“Well, well, look who’s where she’s not supposed to be,” he taunted, ignoring the bulge between his legs as he approached her.

“You’re not supposed to be here either, Riddle,” Walburga replied.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that why you followed me here, dear? To inform me of a rule nobody enforces?”

Of course that wasn’t why, but this was too much fun, playing with this little mouse. She stood frozen as he reached her, lifting his hand. In her head, he saw how eager she was for his affections, the nights she touched herself to him, yearning for him. With his thumb, he smeared off her lipstick, for he hated the taste of it. “Or is this what you’re after, Lady Black?” he asked before taking her head in his hands and bringing his mouth to hers.

He backed her up against the shelf and pressed into her soft form, running his hands down her torso to her lush hips. “This is what naughty Walburga wants, yes? The little princess wants to be a whore just for me, hmm?”

She sighed and leaned into his touch as he mouthed her neck and lifted her robes. Once he was nestled into her, her shapely legs wrapped around his waist, he enjoyed Walburga Black to the fullest, drinking in her heavy breaths. When he finished, Tom gently set her down and walked away.

“A pleasure seeing you, Lady Black,” he told a gasping Walburga, leaving her alone to conduct herself. Apparently, a roll in the hay with a pretty witch was just what he needed to return fully to normal after making the horcrux. His body was still and calm at last.

✦

Abraxas decided to take a break from OWL studies when the plant names started to look exactly the same. There were so damn many of them, some not even relevant to their lessons. For example, _Chlorophyta_, the green algae—for what in the hell did they need to know the classes in that? The only place he’d seen algae at Hogwarts was on the banks of the lake skirting the Forbidden Forest, and that was a putrid brown. With a huff, he slammed his Herbology textbook shut, packed it in his bag, and walked out of the library.

In the Slytherin common room, the usual gang was convened in their usual spot by the fireplace, playing their usual game of cards. Abraxas was going to bypass them to finish _Treasures of the Last Amazonian Kingdom_, but on his way to the dormitory, he looked Avery straight in the face. The look in the other’s grey-green eyes held something, but he couldn’t decipher what.

“Ah, Malfoy’s decided to grace us with his presence,” Lestrange remarked as Abraxas took a seat between Avery and Cygnus Black. “You’re just as elusive as Riddle these days.” Next to him, Abraxas noticed an empty seat; Lestrange was apparently expecting Riddle anyway. He was dealt a hand, but the game seemed to be on hold.

“We’re discussing potential wives and mistresses,” Cygnus Black told him. “We all know Druella Rosier will be my eventual wife, and I’m thinking of having either Fawley or Selwyn on the side.”

“Why not both?” Mulciber asked, causing them all to chuckle except for Lestrange.

“Got my eye on Selwyn,” he said. “If she’d lose a bit of the attitude, she’d be perfect.”

“Well, fat chance of that happening, mate,” said Cygnus before he turned to Abraxas. “And you, Malfoy? There must be _someone _in this castle worthy of your highness.”

Abraxas tried not to flush, feeling eight pairs of eyes poking holes through his face. “I, er, I quite like Ananke Messier.” Of course, “quite like” meant _can tolerate in small doses_, but at least he’d given them something to pounce on.

“Hmm,” said Lestrange, tapping his chin for effect. “She’s alright, I suppose. But not a Sacred 28, is she?”

Avery’s eyes were boring into Abraxas’ temple, causing him to sweat. No one could possibly suspect anything, could they? If not, why was the focus on who _he _fancied?

“Yes, well,” he managed after a brief pause. “She’s pure enough to carry the Malfoy name. We’re not quite as…particular about lineage.” His voice grew stronger, taking on the haughty tone the Malfoys were known for even though he had to fake his. “And Ananke Messier is rather proper and intelligent. I wouldn’t be surprised if she earns ten OWLs.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Orion Black spoke up. “I thought Ananke was the younger one.”

“No, that’s Harpalyke,” said Icarus Yaxley. “She’s in our year.” He gestured to the two other fourth-years, Felix Murdoch and Alphard Black. “She’ll certainly earn ten OWLs next year, I’d say.”

“The one with the big tits and the cute little moon-face?” asked Mulciber, leaning in eagerly. “I wouldn’t mind having a bit of fun with her.”

The rest of them eyed him with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. “She’s a _fourth_-year, mate,” Cygnus reminded him.

“So’s Rosier, and you haven’t got a problem marrying her.”

“Yes, but not _now_. They’re just girls still.”

“Well, judging by development, Messier’s a mature girl.” Mulciber turned to Yaxley. “Tell her I’ve got my eye on her.”

Before Yaxley could reply, Felix Murdoch abruptly stood, slammed his cards down on the table, and stormed off to the dormitory as everyone watched in bewilderment.

“The hell’s the matter with him?” Cygnus Black demanded.

“Reckon he fancies Messier,” Yaxley explained with a snicker. “They’ve been huddled up lately, working on a project. Sorry, Mulciber, but I think he’s got a better chance.”

“Mm. And you, Avery? Still on Lucretia Black?”

Abraxas glanced at the wizard in question. “I mean, I’d take her if she wasn’t my cousin,” Cygnus Black offered.

“Bloody hell, Cygnus,” Orion muttered under his breath while Alphard stared hard at his knees.

Avery took his time responding, apparently unbothered by the others’ stares. “Hmm…” He scrunched his perfectly-shaped lips into his cheek. Under the table, Abraxas clutched his erection, willing it to subside. “Lucretia is very attractive, but I’m not quite considering marriage at the moment. Got to establish myself first.”

As if to finally end the conversation, he turned to a second-year boy hovering around, hoping to wheedle his way into the group. “Oi, Rosier! Fetch us another bottle of this from the kitchens, will you?” He extended an empty bottle of mead.

Druella Rosier’s younger brother, Evan, took it, eyeing it uncertainly. “Will—will the house-elves even give it to me?”

“Not my problem, dear boy. Figure it out.”

Rosier did figure it out somehow, delivering to them the new bottle about ten minutes later and hoping for an invite to stay, which he did not receive. With a few mugs of mead, Abraxas was able to block out OWL-related stress and focus on the game.

After a few drinks in him, his eyes began to wander, settling on Avery more than once. Fortunately, everyone else was too drunk to notice—everyone except Avery himself. Though he drank just as much, he stayed oddly aware, meeting Abraxas’ eyes every time. Yet something was wrong: When their eyes met, Avery tightened his lips and looked away, like he was cross with Abraxas, but why would he be?

He got his answer when the bottle was finished and Avery yanked him aside. “Malfoy, a word if you please.”

The others, now stumbling and slurring, headed to the boys’ dormitories, laughing and jostling each other. Icarus Yaxley was once again so inebriated, he had to be carried up the stairs. Meanwhile, Avery was pushing Abraxas to the stone passageway. However, they didn’t leave the common room as expected; instead, Avery turned halfway through, unmasking a stomach-dropping glare of derision. “Perhaps from now on, Baby Malfoy should run to that Messier swot rather than waste my time.”

“What are you—?”

“Perhaps I’ve made a mistake, giving you the time of day. Foolish little boy you are.”

“James, I don’t understand,” Abraxas blurted in one breath. “What have I done wrong?” Just as the question left his mouth, Avery’s words came back to him: _Run to that Messier swot…_

“Worked it out, have you?” Avery asked coldly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“James, please.” Abraxas hated how desperate his voice came out, but he _was _desperate to abate Avery’s anger. “I don’t actually fancy Ananke, I am just—”

“Rubbish,” Avery accused. “Do you think I didn’t see you with her at that party?”

“I told you, it was a façade…” Abraxas realized he was avoiding Avery’s gaze, because now that he thought on it, he was rather fond of Ananke Messier despite her glaring flaws. Most of that fondness was rooted in pity, but he did care for her and not only because she was a pretty pureblood.

Avery scoffed and shook his head. “I can’t believe how weak and girl-foolish you are, Malfoy. Like the rest of them, entertaining this half-blood bitch.”

For one horrible moment, tears threatened to fill Abraxas’ eyes. To compensate, he set his jaw and drew himself to full height. “What’s your problem with her? She’s a lovely witch, hardly a…a…” He couldn’t bring himself to say _bitch_. He’d heard the word many times but not in regard to anyone he knew, especially not someone like Ananke Messier.

Avery’s response turned his blood cold: “Indeed she is. They all are.”

“Who?” Abraxas asked, nonplussed.

“Witches,” Avery clarified in a monotone, and Abraxas sensed his anger shifting away from him. “Especially the ones who claim they’re so pure. Fussing and giggling and clamoring for attention for a man with gold to look their way and fall to their feet. Whores, the lot of them.”

“You’re bang out of order, mate,” Abraxas told him, feeling his stomach churning. How could Avery possibly believe the ugly things he was saying? He met his eyes, but the grey-green pair only held contempt.

“Keep away from me, Malfoy.”

“James, wait—” Without thinking, Abraxas reached out and pulled on the sleeve of Avery’s robes, causing him to stumble and nearly crash to the floor.

“I said keep away from me, Malfoy,” Avery snarled, shoving Abraxas so hard, the back of his head nearly slammed into the stone wall. Stunned, he simply stood in place, rubbing his aching skull while Avery stalked back into the common room.

The very last thing in the world Abraxas wanted to do was cry, but his body overrode his wishes, turning toward the wall, pressing his forehead against the unforgiving stone, and letting tears pour down his cheeks. His mind was yelling at him to at least dry his face. His arm did not comply, hanging limply at his side as he sagged against the wall.

✧

Walburga felt like a right slag. Not exactly surprising, as she was behaving like one. A right stupid, lovesick slag. She’d let Riddle take her in the Hogwarts library of all places and leave her, just like that. And now he was ignoring her except for polite greeting, like she was simply his mates’ older sister, like every other Slytherin girl.

She tried to occupy herself with approaching NEWTs, but there was nowhere to study except the library, since none of the other girls gave a damn about exams, save for Lucretia. Walburga invited her to study so she wouldn’t be tempted to go hunting for Riddle. Unfortunately, just being in the library was a distraction from studying. The odd mix of yearning and shame settled in her stomach, rippling every now and then, just when she’d managed to push it out of her mind.

One lazy Saturday about three long weeks after the encounter with Riddle, Lucretia did not join Walburga, giving some vague excuse Walburga suspected was covering up a meet with Ignatius Prewett. She attempted to study her Latin conjugations in her dormitory, but the rest of the girls kept interrupting to ask Lucretia’s whereabouts.

“Do I look like a babysitter?” she finally snapped at Aurelia Parkinson, who scrunched up her pug face in response.

“Golly, Black, that time of the month, is it?”

Walburga didn’t deign her a response, shoving her parchment and textbook into her bag and stomping out.

The common room was not an option, since the blokes had taken over, deterred from Hogsmeade by unusually cold weather. She was relieved to see Riddle at the center of his sycophants, which meant he wasn’t prowling the Restricted section.

Nevertheless, Walburga couldn’t help glancing at him, wishing him to see her and hoping he’d eventually follow. _No, no, no! _She had to study—and save her reputation.

The library was bizarrely empty, considering how close the students were to exams. Likely they were having their last relaxing Sunday of the school year. Walburga was not complaining. She pulled her parchment and quill back out and got to work.

_Hic, haec, hoc_, she wrote, making a chart. What a pity Latin was so complex and involved more memorization than she had the capacity for, or so it seemed. Yet she continued to write out charts for each _demonstrative pronoun_, ignoring the cramp in her hand and the memory of Riddle’s body against hers everywhere else. No, she would not think of his hands holding up her legs, his scent shrouding their entwined bodies, his hungry mouth against hers—

_No, no, no! _She had to forget such shameful behavior. Pressing the quill harder into the parchment, she continued, the ink black and ominous smeared by her fist moving across the page.

She heard someone behind her only half a second before a soft hand landed on her shoulder. “Walburga.”

Walburga turned, surprised to see Semele Selwyn, for the voice that had spoken her name was not haughty but taut with apprehension. “May I have a word?”

Furrowing a brow, Walburga gestured to the table, but Semele shook her head. “Come with me.”

Grateful for a diversion from Latin and shame, Walburga packed up her things again and followed the younger girl out of the library and through the main corridor. Semele stayed a few steps ahead of her, leading her up one staircase, then another…

“Where are we going?” Walburga asked, fighting to keep her breath steady. She wasn’t as lithe and fit as Selwyn and she didn’t need a reminder of it.

“Just come,” the other directed over her shoulder with traces of her usual swot. Just when Walburga was about to snap at her to forget it, they turned down a familiar hidden corridor.

The portrait of Madeira Slytherin waited expectantly, but Selwyn didn’t approach it. Instead, she faced Walburga and clasped her hand, an uncharacteristically warm gesture. In fact, everything about Selwyn was uncharacteristic at the moment: though her robes were pristine and her dark hair in its usual tight bun, her eyes were round and pleading, darting from side to side.

“Walburga, listen.” Her voice was oddly low, considering there was no one around to hear except for the portrait. Perhaps Semele was about to spill some gossip on one of the Slytherin girls, but why pull her all the way here? Not to mention, gossiping brought the girl much more joy than she seemed to have now.

“I’ve heard you’ve taken a fancy to Riddle.”

Walburga opened her mouth to defend herself, but Selwyn continued, “I don’t recommend that—I’d stay away from him if I were you.”

Curiosity morphed into anger as Walburga gave her an affronted glare. “I beg your pardon?”

“Stay away from him,” Semele repeated, unabashed.

“Fancy him yourself, do you?” Walburga shot back, hands curling into fists. She’d seen Riddle glancing at Selwyn more than a few times; obviously the girl thought she had a chance.

Semele shook her head, her fingers pinching her lower lip. Walburga was reminded of the time a few years ago when Cygnus had taken too much Peppy Potion, jumping around and accusing her and Alphard of odd things like adding poison to his food. “No, I don’t fancy him, and neither should you. He’s…there’s something wrong with him.”

Walburga took a step back and stared at her, their hands still clasped. The anger ebbed away, allowing the curiosity to return. Curiosity and something else, but she didn’t know what. “What do you mean?”

“He’s not right in the head.” Semele was whispering now, eyes locked on Walburga’s. “It’s like he’s missing something…like he’s less human.”

Though Walburga had thought the very same, she pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “That’s a rather bold statement against Hogwarts’ finest student, Semele. Have you any evidence for it?”

Semele tore her eyes away and dropped them to the floor. “Never you mind. Just heed my advice, Walburga.” Without lifting her head, she shuffled out of the corridor with heavy steps. Walburga debated calling after her, prodding her for an actual explanation, but it seemed like Semele was unwilling to give it.

By the time Walburga entered the main corridor, the younger witch was nowhere to be found. She assumed she’d run into her at some point on her way back to the common room, but she did not.

What on Earth had she been playing at? Semele seemed wary of Riddle but what on Earth for? Aside from occasionally checking her out, he paid her almost no attention at all. She’d scorned him many times, dismissing him for his half-blood status, saying he was nothing special. What had changed?

He’d grown handsome, Walburga answered herself as she made her way deeper into the dungeons. Riddle was the object of many a fancy these days and even pristine princess Selwyn wouldn’t resist his charms. He was directing them at Walburga, evoking Selwyn’s envy. Yes, that was it, Walburga assured herself. She was finally superior to Selwyn, and Selwyn couldn’t handle being second choice. Walburga smirked and held her head high, but it didn’t last long. Something was nagging at her.

Lo and behold, once she was in the common room, she was accosted by none other than Riddle, absent of his usual monkeys. “Where were you?” he demanded.

Now you’re concerned, she wanted to retort, but she simply patted her bag. “Studying in the library.”

He held her eyes, his appearing pure black in the firelight. Selwyn’s warning rang in her head: _like he’s missing something…less human_. He raised his eyebrows and made a _tsk _sound before turning away. “Best get to bed, Lady Black.”

Walburga did not want to take orders from him after he’d spent weeks ignoring her, but the alternative was sitting in the common room with Felix Murdoch and Icarus Yaxley. Riddle was walking toward the boys’ dormitories, unconcerned with the two boys. He didn’t look back at Walburga, but once she, too, turned her back, she swore she felt his eyes on her. It was both thrilling and anxiety-evoking—finally, his attention, but why now?

On her way to the seventh-year dormitory, she peered through the door of the sixth-year one. Selwyn was seated on her bed, pretending to listen to Aurelia Parkinson. Still wide-eyed, pulling on her lip.

_It’s like he’s missing something… _But it was Walburga who was missing something and she could not figure out what. _Enough. _Selwyn simply fancied him, that was all.

Walburga changed out of her robes and climbed into bed, careful not to wake the other girls. Here was the perfect opportunity to touch herself—the lone one awake, a fresh interaction with Riddle—yet she wasn’t even slightly in the mood. She fell asleep right away and had dreams she couldn’t remember. Despite this, she awakened shortly before dawn with a lingering unsettlement.


	10. Not My Idea

At first chance, Tom headed straight to the library, but for once, his destination was not the Restricted Section.

“Good evening, Madam Elspeth,” he called as always as he signed the log. As always, she did not respond. The library was packed with surly-faced students preparing for exams. A brief sneer crossed his face as he strode through the aisles. He had not been concerned about OWLs and yet he’d earned ten, the most in the 20th century thus far. Exams were trivial for extraordinary wizards.

Tom reached the records section and pulled out the thick tome with the gold-etched title _Alumni of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 1900-Present_. Here he could find a bit of useful information about his peers. He went straight to the R-S-T section and looked up the witch he was concerned with.

_Selwyn, Semele Hegemone_. “Should’ve listened, sweetheart,” he whispered to the photograph of the swot-faced 11-year-old girl in the file. Just as he was about to flip the page for her timetable, her birthdate caught his eye: 21 May 1927. Her seventeenth birthday was a mere two days away. What luck! Tom had the perfect plan to introduce her to adulthood. Satisfied, he closed the book and left the library.

Another bit of luck—it fell on a Friday. On Thursday evening, he gathered the Knights in the room on the fifth floor and told them he had a reward for their loyalty—true enough. He took note of those who showed apprehension and dismissed them for now. Later, he’d worry about who was worthy of Knighthood or not. Now he had practical matters to take care of.

After supper, Tom took his slightly-lumpier-than-usual bag to one of his other favorite spots in the castle: the first floor, where he’d gotten rid of that moaning mudblood. Over the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, he siphoned a bit of his homemade Amortentia into a small vial, holding his breath. As he pressed the cork into the bottleneck, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He hated that he looked identical to that filthy muggle, but he did have to admit it did come in handy. No one would have a hard time believing a witch falling for Tom Riddle’s charms, regardless of blood status.

Once everything was back in place save for the vial in his pocket, he brought it into the kitchens and gave the house-elves instructions. Then he joined in the card game with his Knights. While they drank and engaged in their foolishness, he rehashed the plan.

The next evening, Evan Rosier, pleased at the prospect of earning an older-year girl’s attention, delivered a cupcake to Semele Selwyn at her birthday tea party. _In honor of your 17th birthday, pretty lady, meet me at the statue of Barnabas Smethwyck on the fifth floor_, read a small note on the plate in well-practiced script.

✧

Walburga was restless in her seat. The very last event she wanted to take part of was a tea party with the Slytherin girls, but she had to stay on Lucretia’s good side. Her cousin helped her stay focused on NEWT studying despite not giving a toss about NEWTs herself.

Especially right now, as Walburga was yearning for a Riddle encounter quite strongly. She knew what triggered it—yet another scathing letter from Pollux, reiterating the same rubbish—but the knowledge of it didn’t give her any power to stop it.

Thankfully, none of the other ladies seemed eager to chat either. None of them were betrothed and none seemed keen on discussing marriage. Lucretia was entirely distracted with Merlin-knew-what in her head. About half the table tucked in early, so the rest decided to leave the kettle half-full and follow suit. Pity Walburga wasn’t the least bit tired.

“I think I’ll stay here for a bit,” she told a disinterested Lucretia. “It’s quite nice without the blokes around.” She realized that they must’ve convened somewhere else, likely under Riddle’s instruction. That made him both easy to find and harder to approach.

_Stop being ridiculous, _Walburga scolded herself. _You are not approaching him anywhere, no matter the circumstance—_

Her thoughts were cut off when she became aware of a female figure standing awkwardly by the tea table. “Erm, Walburga?” she asked when Walburga’s eyes fell upon her.

“Yes?”

The figure stepped into the firelight, now recognizable as Ananke Messier. Here we go, Walburga thought, bracing for the slew of meaningless chatter.

However, Messier drove straight to the point. “Have you seen Semele by any chance? I can’t find her anywhere.” She wore the same expression the girl in question had a couple days ago—lip bit, eyebrows slanted up with fret.

Walburga glanced at where Semele had been sitting for no more than half the tea party. All that remained was a half-eaten cupcake, long abandoned on a place next to a cup of cold tea. For some reason, it captured her gaze, but it wasn’t that odd, considering the subdued atmosphere in the common room this evening.

“She’s likely gone to bed,” Walburga told Messier, waving a hand in dismissal, hoping the other would take the hint and get lost.

Of course she didn't, insisting, “She wouldn’t. Today’s her birthday, see.”

Walburga didn’t see what that had to do with anything. “She’s likely soaking in the tub with a goblet of wine, like I should be doing at the moment. Now please, dear girl, leave me in peace.”

Ananke let out an audible huff of annoyance, but at least she finally obeyed. Walburga waited until the clicking of heels faded before rising from the seat and creeping out of the common room. Just in time: the two most annoying fourth-years in the castle, Murdoch and Yaxley, appeared out of nowhere with a bottle of mead. She turned her face away and hurried past them.

She should’ve gone to the library—that was where she told herself she was going, anyway. Her feet stuck to her original, terrible plan, taking her past the library, the Hospital Wing, the Great Hall, and now climbing up the stairs. They didn’t stop until she was on the fifth floor.

Here, a horrible thought occurred to her: What if Riddle and Selwyn were together? It would be just like him, the arrogant arse, to entertain the two purest witches of Hogwarts. Wait, no, that was highly improbable, since the rest of the blokes were gone, too.

Which made the idea of coming here more absurd. Why had she? It wasn’t like she was going to wait around until Riddle was done lording it over the others and catch him on the way back, though that was very tempting. Now, in this particular spot in the castle, the sordid yet arousing memory of their first time assaulted her mind. His rough handling juxtaposed with sweet words, his dark eyes alight with interest, his undivided attention on her—_No! Wrong, shameful!_

She turned 180 degrees and went back down the stairs, having absolutely no business pursuing Riddle. This entire relationship—for lack of a better term—was a mistake. She had to fix her reputation and land a pureblood husband, as her father harshly reminded her over and over.

_Such a disgrace…unbelievable…consider yourself disowned if not married by the end of summer…I’ve given you enough time. _She’d ripped that letter to bits and flushed it down the toilet, too. Before, she had Riddle’s affections to shield herself from her father’s cruelty; now she didn’t even have that.

Walburga made it all the way to the library, situating herself at one of the many empty tables with her Latin book and notes, before the tears came. Her grammar charts blurred in front of her face and she was forced to cradle her head in her arms, tears leaking into the sleeves of her robes. It was times like these, growing more frequent as she grew older, when she hated being a witch descended from one of the oldest, purest families.

The wizards, on the other hand, she thought bitterly as she sniffed and sighed, had it much easier. They still had pressure to marry, but they could offset it by high status and promising marks. And no matter how well Walburga performed magic, it would never be enough. She would never be the perfect witch in anyone’s eyes.

✦

For a week out of Abraxas Malfoy’s entire life, he thought of nothing but James Avery. The first 24 hours were utterly miserable, but he found he wasn’t as broken as he would’ve thought before their row. Avery’s hateful line tore through his head over and over: _Witches. Whores, the lot of them. _James Avery had shown a side of him slightly too vicious for Abraxas.

By the second week, he was at least able to pick up his OWL studying schedule again. Studying gave him an excuse to avoid the Slytherins until Thursday night, when Riddle gathered them into that odd room on the fifth floor and told them about a “reward” he’d planned for them the following night, same time, same place.

That started Abraxas’ desire to talk to Avery again. Not to explain himself but for Avery to explain to him what this so-called reward was. The rest of the Knights seemed thrilled about it, but Abraxas didn’t share the same sentiment. He knew approaching Avery was a bad idea—those grey-green eyes would awaken that nonsensical part of Abraxas that still cared for him. He could not interact with Avery outside of the Knight rubbish.

Thus, he marched along with the rest of the upper-year Slytherin boys, shoulder to shoulder with Felix Lestrange and Cygnus Black, to the fifth floor.

Last night, Riddle had welcomed them to the table in the middle of the room, lit only by the moonlight. Now the room glowed with candles from the table, which had been pushed against the back wall. Down on the floor was a faded pentagram Abraxas hadn’t seen last night. Riddle must’ve drawn in between now and then, but it looked much older, the chalk smudged by more than a few footsteps. The pentagram was less concerning than what was in the center.

Riddle was standing behind a girl seated in a wooden chair. His hand traveled idly up her shoulder, resting at the crook of her neck. The Knights formed their usual circle and Abraxas recognized the girl in the flickering candlelight as Semele Selwyn.

She didn’t appear the least bit bothered to be there, glancing hopefully up at Riddle. There were no restraints, nothing holding her to the seat, her skirts smoothed down, every curl in place. In its apparent normalcy, the scene was jarring to Abraxas, incomprehensible.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” Riddle said, his cold, dark eyes sliding over their faces. Semele followed his gaze and peered at the circle of hooded wizards, just now aware of their presence.

“What’s going on, Tom?” she asked with none of her usual rancor toward him. She gazed up at him, merely blinking. Riddle grinned down at her, running a hand over her hair, smoothing it away from her face.

“Not to worry, my darling. We’re just having a bit of a get-together.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, head leaning into Riddle’s touch. Abraxas tried to swallow his saliva, which had turned to foul-tasting slime on his tongue. Something was terribly wrong here.

“I’ve seen you all with your eyes on this pretty witch we’ve got here. Tonight, I present her to you for a bit of fun, a release of tension built up from such rigorous study and other matters. It isn’t easy being part of the elite.”

“Hear, hear,” said Lestrange at once.

_What in the—I say, what in the— _Abraxas’ mind couldn’t produce much more than that, his body frozen and useless. He glanced at Avery, but from the sparkle in his eye, Avery was more excited than apprehensive.

“Help yourselves to some firewhiskey.” Riddle gestured to the table, where eight goblets were lined up in two neat rows. They were passed around as he turned back to Semele and asked, “Darling, won’t you be our entertainment for the night?”

“Erm…all right.” It was clear she didn’t know exactly what he was asking, but she nodded anyway. “Shall I dance?”

The smile was back, Riddle’s hand cupping her jaw and pinching her cheek, like she was a little girl who’d said something cute. “No, dear, we’d like a different type of performance.”

Abraxas clutched his goblet tightly, gritting his teeth from the snickers of his housemates. He knew he should take at least a sip in case anyone was paying attention, but his stomach was too wound up to accept anything, even his thickened saliva. Plus, everyone’s attention was on Semele, who looked slightly nonplussed despite her eager glances at Riddle.

Riddle turned away from her to set his goblet on the table. She kept her eyes on his back, smiling when she turned back around and stroked her cheek. Then he looped his finger around the neck of her blouse and gave a slight tug.

“Unbutton this, sweetheart.”

For less than a second, her eyes filled with terror. Then she blinked, gazing up at him. “Have I got to, Tom?”

“Won’t you? For me?”

More hesitance, a mildly worried glance around, and then Semele’s fingers found the first button of her blouse. While Riddle smoothed back her hair, she made it to the middle button before dropping her hands to her lap and ducking her head. “I don’t—I don’t want to do this, Tom.”

“Shh, trust me, sweetheart,” Riddle coaxed, ever so patient. “Come on, darling Semele, show us just a bit more of your beauty?”

Keeping her head ducked, she worked on the rest of the buttons. “That’s a good girl,” said one of the Knights. Abraxas turned to see who and saw with horror that it was Avery. Without realizing it, Abraxas had taken a step backward while the others had stepped forward, leaving him on the outskirt, sticking out. He hastily rejoined the circle; thankfully, Riddle hadn’t noticed.

Semele had her blouse unbuttoned now, revealing a glimpse of a lacy bra over barely-there breasts and a pale, slender torso. For a moment, Abraxas was transfixed, recalling one of the blokes saying that Selwyn witches were the fairest and most docile of all the Sacred 28 bloodlines. Between Semele and the Messier sisters, he could not disagree.

“That’s it, pull it open for us,” Riddle prompted, sliding his hand over the back of her neck. Now looking thoroughly uneasy, she held open her blouse under the boys’ hungry gazes. Avery was right in front of her, reaching his hand out.

“No.” Her dark eyes filled with tears as she looked pleadingly at Riddle. “Please, Tom, I don’t want—”

“Hush, relax, sweetheart.” Riddle was using his kind voice, but Abraxas could hear the strong hint of contempt underlining his words. Semele apparently didn’t, for she leaned into him and closed her eyes, accepting the hand stroking her hair.

That was it—Abraxas couldn’t take it anymore. Still clutching the goblet—nowhere to set it down that wouldn’t draw attention—he bent low and backed out of the circle. Cygnus Black immediately filled the gap, bringing him closer to the pair in the center.

Once out of the inner claws, Abraxas straightened up and darted out of the room. On the way, firewhiskey splashed out of his full goblet over his arm and chest. Ignoring it, he ran down the corridor and down two flights of stairs before coming within an inch of colliding with Professor Merrythought. He swung the goblet behind his back just in time.

The old woman stepped back and wrinkled her nose. “You’re a right mess, Mr. Malfoy. Get to your dormitory at once and pull yourself together.”

“Yes, madam,” he said dully, out of energy. He trudged the rest of the way to the dungeons, not caring if anyone caught up with him, not even Avery. Apparently, Avery was having too much fun playing with Semele Selwyn.

He arrived at the portrait in front of the stone passageway and found that he couldn’t utter the password. He knew it, of course, _comraderie_, but his voice-box had shut down. And even if he made it into the common room, he wouldn’t be able to speak. Perhaps physically he could, but he knew not on Earth what he’d tell the girls who would undoubtedly ask Semele’s whereabouts.

And so he turned away from the portrait and continued deeper into the dungeons. He remembered catching Cygnus Black with a Ravenclaw girl in an empty room somewhere by Merrythought’s old classroom…yes, here it was. With a heavy sigh, he locked himself in and sat down on a heavy wooden chair amid a pile of chains. As he watched despondently, they slid over his ankles and fell back to the floor.

Why—why had he fled like a damn coward? How could he have just stood there and watched a pureblood witch get publicly humiliated? He was a Malfoy, for heaven’s sake. Malfoys did not flee; they led. Perhaps Cassius had been right about his only son—

_“Alohomora,” _came a voice from outside before the door swung open. Evidently, Abraxas’ lock charm was not his strongest. Avery waltzed in, kicking the door closed behind him. For the first time since Abraxas was a young boy still too shy to admit to himself that he might fancy other boys, he was not happy to see Avery.

“Thought you wanted me to keep away,” he said coldly. “How am I supposed to do that if you’re up my arse?”

He expected Avery to grow angry, but he simply smiled and shook his head. “I know why you’re lashing out. You’re hurt. I shouldn’t have gotten so cross with you, Abraxas.”

“I was hurt before. Now I’m not.” Abraxas realized the words were true as he spoke them. One day, in the not-so-distant past, this realization would’ve carried more emotion. Right now, he just felt hollow. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Avery cocked his head. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, sounding more curious than anything else.

Abraxas only shook his head. He was exhausted, his skull throbbed, and the stench of firewhiskey and sweat from his damp robes was continually filling his nose.

The older boy stood still, thinking hard. He really was handsome like this, Abraxas noted, yet none of the longing came back—perhaps it was gone for good. “About Selwyn, then, is it?” Avery asked after a silent moment. “Listen, mate, it was just a bit of fun. She enjoyed it, didn’t you see?”

“Rubbish,” Abraxas snapped with more vitriol than intended. “Riddle gave her something and you know it. Drugged her up somehow.”

Avery shrugged. “We didn’t touch her, mate—well, Mulciber couldn’t help sneaking in a grope, the filthy animal. She’s safe and sound now.”

“For Merlin’s sake, James.” Abraxas gripped the goblet, fighting the urge to hurl it. “I know you’ve got this—odd hatred of witches, but you know this isn’t ‘just a bit of fun’ for her. Not when you lot ruined her reputation.”

“Her reputation’s fine,” Avery assured him, winking. “In that case, I’ll just marry her. Least I know she’s not been touched more than a hand over her bra.”

“Get out,” Abraxas told him in an oddly calm tone in contrast to the rage brewing stronger.

“Oh, come on, Baby Malfoy,” Avery cajoled, reaching out in an attempt to pat Abraxas’ head.

Abraxas jerked away from his hand. “I said get out!”

“Abraxas—”

“No! I said get _out_! Leave me now!” He finally gave into the urge and hurled the goblet in Avery’s direction, letting his anger consume him. It bounced off the wall to Avery’s left, a loud CLANG filling the room, and rolled across the floor.

Avery glanced at it before looking back at Abraxas. There was no expression on his face, no indication of what he was thinking. “See? I told you you’re hurt. Think on it a bit more and then come and talk to me.” Without waiting for a response, he left the room and shut the door behind him.

Abraxas was glad Avery had left without expecting an answer, for he had nothing to say. No argument, because Avery was right: Abraxas was still hurt, but not because of their stupid row. It was because of all the accepting of Avery’s cruelty Abraxas had done thus far, he could not accept this.


	11. Megalomaniac

Lucretia and Walburga sat side by side at a small table in the library, studying. Or rather, Walburga was studying and Lucretia was practicing her script.

“Aren’t you going to practice ‘Prewett’?” Walburga needled her cousin, tired and stressed from studying for hours upon hours.

“Don’t start,” Lucretia muttered. “Unless, of course, you’re practicing your ‘Riddle’?”

Walburga leaned her chin on her hand and set down her quill. “I no longer fancy him.”

“Oh, no? Pity, you would do well to marry him after all. He’s quite brilliant, isn’t he?”

“Now you want me to marry him?” She glanced at Lucretia out of the side of her eye. Since when had she begun to kiss Riddle’s arse as well? It seemed as if there was some sort of odd contagion going around Hogwarts this year. Walburga couldn’t judge too harshly, as she had fallen victim to it herself.

Lucretia didn’t answer, turning back to her parchment. Walburga saw her something that may have started with a P.

“Ladies,” said a voice between them, causing the pair to startle. Ananke Messier had appeared out of nowhere again, looking tense. “I need your help with something.”

Lucretia and Walburga exchanged glances before the former said, “Of course, dear, what is the problem?”

“Well…”

“Here, have a seat.” Lucretia gestured to the empty chair across the table. Ananke hesitated before taking a seat, keeping her concerned gaze on the table as she spoke.

“Semele has fallen ill, and I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’d gone to the Hospital Wing, claiming she’d eaten a cupcake on her birthday that didn’t agree with her. But that was over the weekend and it’s now Tuesday, and she won’t rise from bed.”

“Not to be rude, dear Ananke,” Walburga cut in, “but we’re not Healers. It appears she needs to go back to the Hospital Wing.”

Ananke nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying, but she won’t listen to me, see. Even Harpalyke says it’s odd and, well, my sister is rather…odd herself.”

“Don’t fret, dear,” Lucretia assured her, patting Ananke’s hands clasped on the table in between them. “Walburga and I will talk some sense into her, isn’t that right, dear cousin?”

“Too right,” Walburga parroted with obviously fake enthusiasm. Lucretia beamed an appalled glare into her out of the side of her eye. On the contrary, Ananke nodded gratefully, eyes bulging slightly. “That would be grand. Thank you, ladies.”

They had no choice now. Walburga followed Lucretia to the dormitory, striding past the blokes in the common room without glancing at them. She didn’t want to know if Riddle was among them. Not her concern, not her business.

The corridor to the dormitories was quiet, the ladies congregated somewhere, pouring tea and spilling gossip. It _was_rather odd for Semele Selwyn to forgo that. “I don’t understand what the fuss is,” Walburga whispered irritably. “Avery corroborated her story with the cupcake and escorted her to the Hospital Wing himself. She obviously—”

“Hush up already,” Lucretia snapped, past her limit. “Is it that hard to simply do the right thing every so often?”

Vexed, Walburga started to reply, but Lucretia raised her hand and knocked on the door to the sixth-year dormitory. “Semele? May we come in?”

No answer. Without any sort of cue, Walburga recalled her family’s Boxing Day party when she’d laid on her bed, drunk, crying over her father’s rebuke. There had been a knock on the door, a “Walburga?” in a female voice. Semele’s voice, she realized as another memory of her warning in the library flashed through Walburga’s head. The same girl, the same voice—had Semele intended to give the same warning during the holiday, too?

“Enter.”

At first, Ananke appeared to be exaggerating or mistaken altogether: Semele was seated in front of the mirror, fully dressed, brushing her long, dark hair, which was rather snarled and matted.

“Hello, dear Semele,” said Lucretia, taking tentative steps toward her as if she were a rabid animal ready to strike. “How are you feeling?”

Semele shrugged, tilting her head and slowly pulling the brush through the ends of her hair.

“You look well. Won’t you join us for a walk on the grounds? It’s quite lovely out today.”

Only a shake of the head in response.

“Semele,” Lucretia tried again. “You’ve got to at least attend lessons, or you’ll fail without a note from Madam Gurnsey. Don’t you at least want to go to the Hospital Wing and—?”

“No.”

Lucretia shot an exasperated glance at Walburga, but Walburga was still recalling Semele’s warning, her heartbeat picking up. _Stay away from him…he’s missing something_. Walburga had dismissed it, chalking it up to the usual pureblood rivalry—but now, she realized it may have been something more.

“I’ll take her,” Walburga offered, stepping forward and placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

Semele shook her head again. “I’m not going.”

“Enough of this.” A heavy ball of dread formed in Walburga’s stomach and sank into the depths of her bowels. Why this awful feeling was taking her over at that moment she couldn’t say, but it was overbearing. “Come, Semele, let’s get a move—”

“I’m not going, I said.”

Walburga stepped back, hands on her hips, not caring that she likely resembled Irma perfectly. “Listen here, dear. You’re coming with me, or Mycaenus Selwyn is receiving a letter saying his daughter’s gone funny in the head.”

That got her little arse moving. She slammed down the hairbrush and stood, letting out a huff. “Fine.”

Lucretia started to follow, but Walburga shook her head, indicating for her to stay behind. Lucretia nodded, letting slip a look of relief. Walburga led Semele out of the dungeons, striding ahead of her before seizing her shoulders and pulling her behind a stone knight just before they reached the Hospital Wing. Semele’s expression morphed from its typical scowl to one of surprise, her eyes widening.

“Listen,” Walburga hissed, glancing around and leaning in. “Tell me what really happened and I won’t take you to the Hospital Wing.”

“Not unless you swear to keep it to yourself forever.”

Walburga hesitated; what if she’d need something to use against Selwyn in the future? Do the right thing, she scolded herself. “Yes, I vow not to speak of it.”

Semele swallowed hard before speaking. “That night on the birthday, I began to feel rather funny, so I went to lie down and…I blacked out or something…” Her eyes slid out of focus, brows slanted up over them “I ‘came to,’ so to speak, crying in James Avery’s arms in the Hospital Wing. Evidently, no one knows what happened.”

“Golly, Semele, that’s dreadful.” The statement was sincere, but to Walburga, that didn’t explain why the girl had shut herself up in bed for days. Nor did it explain the slow, constant sinking feeling in her gut.

“There’s more,” Semele whispered, her lip quivering. She bit down on it, glancing away. “When I went to the Great Hall for tea the day I woke up, the blokes were there, watching me with this odd look in their eyes. Like I was some…_dish _they found appetizing.”

Walburga opened her mouth, but Semele continued, still looking away. “I felt like they knew something I didn’t…something to do with that night I can’t remember, so I went through the robes I was wearing that night. In the pocket, I found this.”

Her dainty, trembling hand extended, clutching a small, square parchment that had been folded in half and smoothed out again. Walburga took it and brought it closer to read the vaguely familiar script:

_In honor of your 17th birthday, pretty lady, meet me at the statue of Barnabas Smethwyck on the fifth floor_.

Her first guess would’ve been Avery, but she’d seen Avery’s writing plenty of times over the years and this was not it. The script was tighter, neater, yet pressed deeply into the parchment in heavy black ink. She had seen it somewhere, in an assignment she’d caught a glimpse of as the creator worked on it in the library. The creator—Tom Riddle.

Walburga shook her head as if to set her jumbled thoughts straight. “I don’t—I don’t understand. Why would Riddle…lure you somewhere?” She recalled that night when she couldn’t find him and had the brief horrible hunch they’d been together.

When Semele raised her eyes to Walburga’s, they were sparkling with tears. “Last term, Riddle stunned me and brought me to this room with all this odd rubbish in it. He undid my blouse and I think he’s done the same last Friday with his mates.” Just as tears streamed down her face, it sank into her hands.

“And now, after they’ve done Merlin-knows-what to me,” Semele went on, crying openly now, “my reputation is entirely ruined! Who’ll ask for my hand now that I’ve been taken advantage of—made impure? Tell me who!”

Her small shoulders curled inward as she bent nearly double, dissolving into sobs. For once, Walburga was speechless, standing frozen in front of her. The ball of dread was expanding, twisting up her stomach. She reached up, intending to place her hand against her own abdomen, but it went further and wrapped around Semele’s shoulders.

Footsteps thumped by: Alphard Black was passing the stone knight, giving them a glance. They were partially obscured, but he could still clearly see what was going on. Out of respect, he faced forward and kept moving.

Walburga folded the note from Riddle and slipped it back into Semele’s pocket. With her now free hand, she brought the younger girl closer until her face was buried in her neck. Semele clutched her, weeping silently, and they swayed on their feet together like that in the morning sunlight streaming through a circular window high above their heads.

✦

_Inveglia. _

A large glow poured out of Tom’s wand, enclosing the goblet and melting it for less than a second before it morphed into a crystalline vase. While the rest of the class looked on, he conjured a bouquet of flowers and slid them into the vase, approaching the table shared between Semele Selwyn and Lysandra Bell. Two opposite expressions crossed the girls’ faces: Lysandra’s eyes filled with glee while Semele’s held fear. Tom allowed himself to soak it up for a moment, carefully placing the vase on the table between the two girls.

“Here you are, ladies.” He nodded to them and turned to Professor Dumbledore, who was of course not impressed.

“Well done, Mr. Riddle,” he said, marking something on his parchment. “Miss Selwyn, you are next.”

As Tom took a seat next to Ravenclaw Sergei Dolohov, the girl stood, clutching her goblet and pointedly sliding the vase toward Lysandra Bell. She set the goblet in front of her at the table and pointed her wand at it. The spell she used changed it into a small porcelain figurine. Without hesitation, she tucked her wand away, gripped the figurine, and strode down the aisle. As she came closer, Tom recognized it as a miniature version of herself: white skin, pale pink dress, large, dark eyes.

She placed it on the table in front of him, nearly tossing it at him. He looked up at her questioningly, but all she said was, “Play with this instead.”

Dumbledore kept his face blank, but he was watching the pair intently. After another tense moment, he spoke. “Thank you, Miss Selwyn. Mr. Walsh, please present.”

Selwyn turned her back on Tom and returned to her seat. Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_. And at the end of Walsh’s presentation, another hiccup: Dumbledore asked Selwyn to stay behind.

No matter, Tom assured himself, she would not speak of it. Though after that orchestration, he wasn’t so sure. It just had to take place in front of Dumbledore, the one professor at Hogwarts resistant to his charm. He wrapped his fist around the figurine in his pocket and squeezed as he left the castle and stalked across the grounds to the greenhouses.

He was going to catch her after tea, but he was too impatient, so he wanted for her outside the greenhouse as the others filed in, wincing and covering their ears. Their entrance had started a cacophony of high-pitched mandrake shrieks, drowning out all else. In addition to this good fortune, Semele was the last one to arrive, having been held back.

She flew past Tom, arm extended to open the door, in a tizzy from being late. He clasped her shoulders and yanked her back. As he whirled her around, she let out a yelp of surprise, eyes deliciously wide again. _This _was how she was supposed to regard him, not with that cold, prissy façade.

“What did you tell him?” Tom demanded.

“Nothing!” she burst out. “I swear—please let me go!”

“Liar,” he snapped. “Look at me.”

In her mind, he saw that she had not been lying. _Nothing, sir, just a bit of rivalry_, she’d told a stern-faced Dumbledore. The professor wouldn’t have seen last week’s events in her mind, for the Amortentia blocked it out. However, he likely picked up on her intuition telling her something was amiss. Tom would have to be careful for the rest of term, which was about to end anyway.

He released her, giving her a slight shove away. She immediately scampered into the greenhouse, grateful to be out of his clutches.

Later, after supper, Tom headed to the library, determined to keep his head down. This was easy, since he already had a plan. If he was going to be making more horcruxes, he needed to get his hands on more treasures to store his precious soul. No more diaries, only artifacts, symbols though history like his ring. Morfin Gaunt had spoken of a locket passed through Slytherin’s direct descendants. That would be his next pursuit, but he needed four more.

A trip to the Restricted Section was not needed in this case, either. There was a section near the records containing a few books about Hogwarts itself and the history of the four founders. Perhaps Slytherin had even more treasures here, or he could have one from each of the founders. Though he echoed the sentiments of his housemates that Slytherin was the superior House, he personally believed in the greatness of all the founders. Only the most brilliant and capable of wizards could build an institution proving the best magical education for thousands of years.

And that education would only improve in the future, when Hogwarts was under his complete control…

By the time Madam Elspeth kicked him out of the library, Tom had a list of valuable objects: aside from Slytherin’s locket, there was Helga Hufflepuff’s cup with an emblazoned badger, the sword Godric Gryffindor had won from the goblins, and Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem, giving wisdom to its wearer. The last one was in the castle, he suspected, so he’d start with that.

After the locket, of course. According to his uncle, his mother had cleared off with it to London. Involuntarily, his mind filled with the memory of her plucked from Morfin’s pickled brain: a young girl with long, matted hair, her back to him, peering through the trees. Morfin had not spoken her name, referring to her as _that little slut_. She had never told Mrs. Cole; Tom had discovered it only last year from The _Pureblood Directory, _listed only as a name and dates. _Merope Gaunt, 1907-1926._

It was easier to think of her as Merope, some dumb, besotted girl rather than his mother. One day in the near future, Tom knew he’d have to sort out all his feelings toward Merope, to rip them away and stuff them into the locket. However, that day was not today.

On his way to the common room, he folded the list into the tiniest square the parchment could form and slid it into his pocket. While doing so, his fingers grazed the figurine. He pulled it out and marveled at the accuracy—the tiny face mirrored its creator’s haughty, wary expression. He smirked, rolling it in his hand. Semele had given him a trophy for conquering her. He should show it to Avery, since it was Avery out of all the Knights who’d enjoyed their rendezvous the most.

When Tom entered the common room, he was immediately called over to the card table by Lestrange, but he didn’t join in right away.

“Gentlemen, where is James Avery?” he asked, standing next to the chair so they all tilted their faces up at him. “I need a quick word with him.”

They glanced at each other. “Reckon he’s gone off with Malfoy,” Mulciber offered.

“And where is Malfoy?”

None had an answer. His Knights were shifting with unease, wishing they could give him the information he needed. Lestrange waved a hand and gestured to a goblet. “Come, mate, have some firewhiskey.”

“In a second,” Tom replied, disinterested now. Avery and Malfoy seemed to be sneaking off very frequently lately. He recalled the latter’s absolute cowardice when Tom presented them with his prize. Had Malfoy been upset with Selwyn’s predicament or Avery’s enthusiasm?

From his observations, Tom had a good idea what the answer was. And if luck was still on his side today, he would soon find out.

✧

Abraxas had managed to play a couple rounds of poker and drink a few goblets of firewhiskey, but now he was hiding out on his bed with the hangings drawn. He tried to read _Treasures of the Last Amazonian Kingdom, _but the pages were too bright, and the words blurred together. The fact of the matter was that he needed to keep the hell away from Avery and his resolve faded with each drop of alcohol.

At least he had peace here. Not only Tom Riddle but the group of Slytherin boys had been making him anxious ever since that occurrence with Semele Selwyn. No one had said anything about it to his face, but he felt rather scrutinized. However, they were all currently half-full with firewhiskey, so now he could finally relax—

Without warning, the hangings were pulled back, revealing the tall figure of James Avery. Abraxas started so badly, his book flew off his lap and onto the floor.

“Why do you keep doing a bunk on our festivities, dear Abraxas?” he asked in a voice bordering on snide. “We surely miss you.”

“Sod off,” Abraxas replied wearily, tired and not in the mood to play Avery’s game.

Avery did just the opposite, sitting on the bed and pulling the hangings closed. “Come on, Baby Malfoy, let’s have a bit of fun with our last chance, hmm?”

“No…” His certainty was fading with every inch Avery came closer until the elder was on top of him, holding his jaw and devouring his mouth. At once Abraxas began to relax, asking himself, well, why the hell not have a bit of fun? He didn’t have to love or fixate on Avery to enjoy his touch. And Avery’s touch was magic by itself, awakening every single nerve as his hand ran down his neck and pulled on the front of his shirt. “Undo it.”

When the buttons were all unfastened, Avery wasted no time yanking it open and pressing his mouth against his chest. Abraxas closed his eyes and slid his hand through Avery’s thick, dark hair, thrusting into his hand. He’d forgotten how much sexual attraction he had toward Avery, not just romantic love. Now with alcohol and Avery’s hot mouth trailing down his stomach, only the desire mattered—

Through the haze, Abraxas heard a soft _whirrr _from somewhere above, followed by a voice that froze them to ice from panting hot in less than a tenth of a second.

“Gentlemen.”

Avery jerked himself into a sitting position. This gave Abraxas a clear view of Tom Riddle, of all people, standing beside the bed with his arms crossed and his usual blank expression.

“Your trysts are at risk of catching attention,” he said without a trace of disgust nor much of anything else, really. “Perhaps you’ll find more discreet measures, considering you are soon expected to start your lives as distinguished members of the wizarding elite.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned his back. “Avery, when you’ve collected yourself, I need a word.”

Avery, very much like Abraxas, seemed to be frozen, mouth open in pure horror. It was jarring to see such a look on the normally stoic boy’s face.

“James.” It came out as a weak, cracked whimper. “Are we…?” Abraxas couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

Avery let out a breath and shook his head. “I’ve no idea, but I reckon I’m about to find out.”

Abraxas barely noticed him leaving, paralyzed with pure fear. Of all the creatures in this castle, the last one he’d pick to discover his secret was Tom bloody Riddle. His insides were churning furiously while his heart thudded in his ears. If anyone could smooth over this mess, he assured himself, it was Avery.

That didn’t calm Abraxas in the slightest. Now stone-cold sober and trembling, he paced in a circle between his and Cygnus Black’s bed, fighting the image of Cassius Malfoy’s face when he found out his only son was caught having a homosexual encounter at Hogwarts. Riddle hadn’t seemed bothered—perhaps he wouldn’t tell anyone. In fact, it wouldn’t benefit him to go telling right away. He’d simply hold it over their heads trapped in the guillotine, waiting for the best time to release the rope.

Not much better, Abraxas thought as he sat on his bed, rubbed his eyes, and let out a sigh thick with misery and dread.


	12. War Over Peace

Walburga snuck in the Restricted Section and waited for Tom Riddle, but of course on the one night she expected him, the bastard didn’t come. Now she had to sneak back to the common room and explain away her absence to the witches somehow. She deviated to the record section to see her updated profile. In vanity, she wanted to see that _Hogwarts education complete _under her name, to imprint it in her mind. She’d need the reminder once she arrived in London—

Her heel caught something in the aisle and she let out a yelp and she went tumbling down, throwing her arms out to catch herself. She succeeded, crouching to balance and turning to the source of her fall.

Tom Riddle rubbed his shin as he rose, looking her up and down. “Well, well, well. Has Lady Black come to give me a special goodbye?”

“We need to have a word,” she told him, drawing herself straight.

He smirked in response, setting her on edge. “Actually, I’d prefer if you lifted up your robes and maybe unbuttoned them a bit, hmm?”

His words sent a tingle through her lower body. Ignoring it, Walburga shook her head. “I’m not undressing for you, Riddle. I’m here to discuss Selwyn and what you’ve done to her.”

Riddle gave no indication he even heard her, advancing until they were less than a foot apart. Since he was a head taller, she had to look up at him, which irked her. She took a step back, feeling a shelf nudging her shoulder blades.

“No, thank you, dear,” he said with his aggravating grin. “There are better things you could do with your mouth, sweetheart.”

Walburga felt her fists curling with rage. The audacity of this little boy! But this was not about her, she reminded herself. The urge to punch him square in his irksome face was overwhelming. No, she was better than that. _Use that sharp tongue, one of your only assets. _

“You dare speak to me as such, Tom Riddle? A noble, pureblood witch who is above you in every way?”

“Ah, how you parrot the same tired, pointless line,” he shot back. “When it means nothing, considering both you and Selwyn have submitted to me fully.”

“Maybe I have,” Walburga replied coolly in contrast to her burning cheeks. “But she hasn’t.”

“She sure has. She positively begged for it.”

She almost believed him—wanted to believe him and submit to him—but Semele’s confused narrative and cries of despair echoed in her ears. She had not been lying. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, made a sport out of lying. “She didn’t and you know it, Riddle. Why can’t she remember it, then?

Riddle chuckled and shook his head. “Funny the things we can’t remember when it’s easier not to. I’m sure you ‘don’t remember’ our first time, either? Or the time right over there?” He pointed down the aisle in the Restricted Section. “Perhaps we should make it a tradition.”

“Sod you, Riddle,” she snapped, turning away. “Perhaps you should make a tradition of shutting up and returning to the muggle hole you came from.”

A rough hand clasped her wrist and yanked her back in front of Riddle’s face, amusement replaced with ire. The hand moved to her face, digging its fingertips into her cheeks, holding her in place. “I would watch what I say if I were you, dear girl. Do not forget who holds the power now.

“Get off me!” Walburga shoved him away, glowering at him, and scurried out of the library. Thankfully, he did not follow.

In the main corridor, she let out a heavy breath. As proud of herself as she was for resisting Riddle’s temptation and defending Semele, she was hyperactive with fear. He _did _have power over her, especially now when she was in such a vulnerable position, tasked with finding a husband as soon as possible. The last thing she needed was to have her reputation flushed further down the shitter. At least she didn’t have to see that evil, wretched boy in the near future.

She entered the common room, where the festivities were just beginning, and headed to the table where the ladies had just set up the kettle. Walburga approached Lucretia, ready with a cock-and-bull story about a lie-in at the Hospital Wing due to the ham not agreeing with her. However, before she got out a word, Lucretia said, “Oh, there you are, Wally. Orion’s looking for you.”

Walburga stopped in her tracks, furrowing a brow. “What for?” she asked, unable to conjure a single reason why her cousin, who had spoken maybe ten words to her in their entire lives, would be looking for her.

Lucretia shrugged, letting slip a small smile. She knows something I don’t, Walburga realized, glancing at the boys’ table. All of them had their heads down, focused on their cards, except Cygnus. He held up a finger, set down his cards, and disappeared down the pathway to the boys’ dormitories. Now completely bewildered, Walburga took a seat next to Lucretia and sipped lukewarm tea.

Less than five minutes later, Cygnus returned with Orion, leading him straight to the ladies’ table. “Here she is,” he said, gesturing to his sister without any sort of explanation before returning to his mates. Orion appeared to be having second thoughts, standing frozen.

“You wished to speak with Walburga, dear brother?” Lucretia prompted, giving her a wink.

“Oh…erm, yes. May I?” He held out a hand for Walburga to take.

She glanced around at the others, expecting looks of affront. On the contrary, they seemed amused, like Riddle without a trace of malice. “Al-alright,” she stuttered, taking his hand and rising.

He led her out of the common room and to the stone knights where she’d consoled Semele. On the way there, they passed Riddle coming back from the library, that filthy, snide smirk still in place. Walburga pointedly turned her head the other way.

Orion waited until the corridor was empty to address her, clasping her hands in his larger, clammy ones. “Listen, Walburga…I’ve an idea.”

Walburga raised a brow, waiting for him to continue, but he blushed and looked away. Whatever his idea was, he was obviously nervous about it. Vaguely, she noted the calmness in her stomach, an unexplained reprieve from the fuss Riddle created.

Her cousin let out a breath, puffing out his cheeks, and raised his round, dark eyes, so very like his sister’s, to hers. “Well, I was thinking that—perhaps—since, you know, you need a suitor and all—a pureblood, and since you, erm, haven’t got one—and you’re of age and all—”

“Orion, please just get on with it,” Walburga sighed, resisting to pull away. She didn’t need a verbal reminder that her clock was now ticking faster and faster as the summer approached.

He shuffled his feet, gazing at them. “Well, I was thinking that since you need a—a pureblood—and I’m one of those—you’ll consider me?”

_“What?” _Walburga blurted, sure she hadn’t heard correctly. “I mean…pardon me?”

By now Orion’s face was brighter than Aurelia Parkinson’s cheap, slaggy lipstick. “I, erm, well, I have no problem marrying you is all.”

Walburga could only stare, uncomprehending. “You want to marry _me_?”

Eyes still on the floor, Orion grinned sheepishly. “Yes—is it such a bad idea?”

“Well, I can think of two points right away that make it so,” she told him. “The very obvious is that we’re first cousins and the next is, you’re a sixth-year. You’ve got to finish Hogwarts.” Why was she even entertaining this ridiculous conversation? She tugged her hands out of his grasp, causing him to lift his head up and look at her.

“Cygnus asked you to do this, hasn’t he?” Walburga demanded. “Listen, dear cousin, you haven’t got to be the sacrificial lamb. I’ll be fine.”

“No, he hasn’t! I’m—”

“Rubbish.” His wide-eyed face blurred as tears filled her eyes. She whirled around, not wanting Orion to see her cry. Why did Cygnus have to humiliate her over and over? Curse him! In fact, that was not a bad idea. It was Walburga’s last night at Hogwarts after all; it wasn’t like they could expel her now—

“Well, take this at least, won’t you?”

She turned and felt her eyes widen in astonishment. Orion was holding out a single rose toward her. Instantly, she flashed back to Valentine’s Day and the bouquet on her bed, which she’d assumed was from Riddle. Now she wasn’t so convinced of that assumption. “Did you—leave me those roses on Valentine’s Day?”

Orion nodded. Walburga took the rose and held it to her chest. “You—fancy me.” The idea was so foreign, so unbelievable, and yet here was this bloke, watching her almost pleadingly.

“Yes, alright,” she sighed, wondering if she would regret this later. “I will marry you if you wish.”

His entire face lit up as he beamed at her, clasping her hand. “Wonderful! I will announce it at the Beginning-of-Summer Pureblood Gathering!”

Too stunned to move, she watched him head off in the direction of the common room, a pep in his footsteps she’d never seen before. Touched by his earnest enthusiasm, Walburga clutched the rose to her heart. This type of vulnerability couldn’t be so bad, could it? Wasn’t it better to maintain coolness?

She weighed the answers on the way back to the common room, twirling the stem of the rose between her fingers. On the one hand, her parents and all other proper authority have told her keeping up outward appearances at all times was tantamount to success. But was that actually realistic? She thought of Semele crying on her shoulder, mourning her reputation, and Riddle, the exemplary model but under the surface was barking mad.

No, she decided, as she told the portrait the password, “Comradery.”

No, it was not better to shove everything back and let it come spewing out at the worst times. Better to allow some out than let it boil over. Thus, she decided to be a bit gentler on herself—including embracing the idea that Orion did actually care for her.

The next day, when the Slytherins piled into the boats to be carried the lake to Hogsmeade Station, Walburga Black and Semele Selwyn sat side-by-side and watched the castle grow smaller and smaller. Halfway across the lake, Semele seized her hand, trying to hide that her eyes were sparkling with tears. Walburga felt her eyes well up, too, understanding the girl’s sorrow and sharing it. Hogwarts had provided a reprieve from the expectations of a Sacred 28 witch. And now it was over.

As the boats docked and they stepped foot off Hogwarts grounds, Walburga looked back at the castle, now smaller than her palm, and let it blur with tears. With all the people and chaos around, it was either the perfect time to cry or the worst. Either way, Walburga ducked her head, a few tears sliding down her cheeks.

Not a minute later, she hastily blotted them away with the sleeve of her robes and stood erect, commanding her brothers to help her with her trunk in her usual unwavering tone. She had a reputation to save, after all.

✧

The last week of Abraxas’ fifth year at Hogwarts proceeded calmly and smoothly. Riddle was keeping the secret, apparently, since no one treated neither Abraxas nor Avery any differently. The pair had an unspoken agreement not to interact outside of the Knights. Then came the last night, when all their trunks were packed and there was not much else to do—Headmaster Dippet apparently forgotten about the Farewell Ceremony this year—except the usual pint-game combination. Headmaster Dippet apparently forgotten about the Farewell Ceremony this year.

This time, instead of cards, they got into a game of Gobstones, which Abraxas opted out of. This was fortunate, as James Avery’s “good news” announcement was anything but.

“Gentlemen, I’ve decided who I will take as my wife,” he said out of nowhere, gazing at the fire.

“Oh, yeah?” Lestrange leaned in, interested. “Who is she, then?”

With a clump of dread in his stomach, Abraxas predicted his answer: “Semele Selwyn.”

Everyone except Abraxas let out a hearty chuckle as if Avery had made a joke. Perhaps it _was_a joke; yes, it had to be. Avery wasn’t that cruel. _Are you sure? _Of course the answer was no.

“Congratulations, mate,” said Mulciber. “Has she accepted, then?”

“Well, she’s accepted my invitation to Paris, so I reckon it’s as good as yes now,” Avery replied, grinning. Abraxas’ chest and stomach were twisting with envy and betrayal. Riddle had advised them to keep up the respectable pureblood lifestyle, but this was just ridiculous. And, of course, Riddle wasn’t even present, so Avery stabbed Abraxas in the heart for nothing.

He managed the rest of the game without exploding, likely due to the copious amount of alcohol he drank. Even while his mates were stumbling and slurring, he sat still with his insides roiling. At last, after a dull, woozy eternity, the older-years started to return to the dormitories. Mulciber decided to sneak into the girls’ side, kicking up a fuss as the passageway sealed itself with an invisible, buoyant barrier, bouncing him on his arse back into the common room.

“Nice one, genius,” Lestrange snickered.

“Oi, what’ve they got that for?” Mulciber grumbled, tripping over his own foot and nearly crashing to the floor again.

“Reckon to keep mongrels like you from pawing at the ladies,” Avery told him.

Unfortunately, Mulciber was in one of his combative moods, so this started a row. “I was actually planning on getting another glimpse of your future wife, Avery,” he said with a smirk. “I quite enjoyed the first one.”

“Bollocks,” Avery replied, waving a hand as if he wasn’t insulted, but his lips tightened, a subtle indication that he was. “We all know you were going there to molest her younger cousin.”

Cygnus Black let out an odd, hyena-like laugh while the others clapped and patted Avery’s back. Abraxas, goaded beyond his limit, slipped away to the boys’ dormitories. He kept his head ducked and headed straight for his bed, closing the hangings before he’d even undressed.

He hoped no one, especially not Avery, would come searching for him. In reality, the only one who’d notice him gone was Riddle, and Riddle wasn’t around anyway. Though as Abraxas lie down, relishing the cool sheets against his bare, hot skin, a tiny part of him—more so a physical one—wished for Avery to seek him out.

Whether he did or not, Abraxas did not know, for he fell asleep not long after his head hit the pillow. Morning came, and all the boys were ordered out of bed by Riddle and told to prepare for the departure from Hogwarts.

Groggy and hungover, Abraxas and the Black cousins did not speak as they dressed and tossed the remainder of their possessions into their trunks. The majority of boarding the Hogwarts Express was spent standing around waiting under a blazing morning sun, which was somehow worse than packing and a hell of a lot worse than lying down. The seventh-years were particularly miserable; for many, the castle was a break from responsibility. Abraxas was thankfully he didn’t have to go straight to work, though spending the summer with his family felt a lot like work. Only Avery was cheerful, since he didn’t have to work, either, sure to take every opportunity to remind them he was going to Paris. Abraxas just ignored him.

That remained the plan until he finally lugged his trunk into the cool corridor of the train, leaving the rest behind. Hardly anyone was on the train yet, so it was quiet, a welcome deviation from the usual boarding process. He let out a heavy sigh, feeling some of the tension drain out of him. That was cut sharply off when someone seized his shoulders from behind and pulled him into the nearest compartment.

“What the—?”

He caught his balance, leaning against his trunk while his captor slid the door shut. Abraxas turned and found himself face-to-face with Avery. Save for them, the compartment was empty.

“We’re not—we can’t be here like this,” Abraxas blurted. He should’ve made for the door, but he couldn’t make himself budge.

“Yes, I know that, Malfoy,” Avery snapped before softening his tone. “Look, I just want a quick word is all.”

“About?”

Avery rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” Before Abraxas could respond, he continued, “Look, I saw how upset you were at my news last night.”

“I wasn’t—”

“But you heard Riddle—we’ve got to present ourselves properly at all times. Our futures depend on it. And what a glorious future it will be when the top of society is cleaned out.”

Abraxas stood with his arms crossed, keeping quiet. He’d heard the pureblood spiel more times than he could count, yet it never got any more detailed. Not like he’d care either way. “Tell me why you chose her.”

Avery furrowed a brow, letting the cockiness slip for less than a second, but that was all Abraxas needed. “I’ve told you, haven’t I? It is I who can save her reputation.”

“And so you love her, then?” Abraxas knew the answer was no, but Avery’s reply startled him nevertheless.

The elder let out a tsk and gave a tug on his own trunk. “Merlin, no. I hate her—insolent little bitch. If I haven’t taught her her place yet, she will surely learn it soon.”

Abraxas tried unsuccessfully to keep the revulsion off his face. Avery disregarded it, opening the door to the compartment. “Come, they’ll be in the usual spot by now.”

As Abraxas followed him to their usual compartment toward the back of the train, he realized he was not envious of Semele Selwyn. Quite the contrary: He pitied her for having to submit to a man who referred to women as “bitches” and cared nothing for her.

However, Avery’s words, as awful as they were, held truth. Their futures depended on them meeting expectations at all times and judging by the look on Tom Riddle’s face as they entered the compartment together, associating with Avery alone was falling short. Their blood status and wealth only excused so much.

Abraxas told himself this over and over during the long ride to London, refusing to look at Avery. He did catch a glimpse of his chin, just the faintest shadow of dark hair breaking through. Improper, he scolded himself, forbidden… It was quite a long ride.

Once the Knights were all on the platform, they bid each other farewell. Abraxas did not waste time, shaking their hands in rapid succession. Unsurprisingly, his mother, Larina, was late and Cassius Malfoy of course had better things to do. Abraxas was in no hurry to go home.

He scanned the crowd until he saw the Messier sisters walking hand-in hand toward their parents. Advancing closer, he watched their mother give each girl a hug while their father simply took their trunks and walked away without a second glance.

Abraxas took the opportunity to saddle up beside Ananke and call to her, “Have a lovely summer, Ananke. Until September!”

Ananke turned and beamed at him. “You as well, Abraxas!” Beside her, her mother also beamed, a touch of pride in her eyes over her daughter catching a Malfoy’s interest. Beside her, Ananke’s sister had her head turned and neck craned, looking for someone of her own.

Abraxas gave Ananke another smile before striding ahead, knowing he’d just made the girl’s entire summer. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, marrying her or another witch. He’d at least care for her right, to counterbalance James Avery’s treatment of his own bride.

✦

Back at Wool’s, hopefully for the last summer of Tom Riddle’s life. He’d hoped to come back and find it a pile of rubble, but no such luck. Idiot muggles, he thought bitterly, shoving his trunk in the corner of his room opposite the cot.

The place smelled even worse than usual. Someone said once that the building used to be a meat processing factory, corroborated by the stench in the summer heat. Additionally, the air-raids seemed to have disrupted the local rat population, for he’d already seen two cross his path since his arrival.

No matter—Tom was not sticking around. Glancing in the mirror propped on his desk, he combed his hair into place. His robes were off, a plain white shirt and trousers underneath. Back to muggle he appeared, which worked for him and his current plan. In the mirror’s reflection, he caught Anna Crawley’s round, interested face peeking through the doorway. When he met her eyes, they widened, and she disappeared.

Tom smirked and tucked his comb in his pocket alongside his wand. Other than these and the ball of fifty-pound notes he’d swiped from a muggle at King’s Cross, his journey required nothing else. Only determination, which he had plenty of.

Back at King’s Cross an hour later, he bought a ticket to Greater Hangleton, a 150-kilometer ride, and a newspaper. _The 30th of June 1944: OPERATION EPSOM ENDED BY GERMAN COUNTER-ATTACKS_. The train wasn’t due for another 20 minutes. What better way to pass it learning about the mass death of useless muggles?

When the train arrived, Tom boarded and chose a seat by the window in a compartment he hoped would stay empty. Again, no such luck: At the next stop, before the train had even left London, the door slid open and a timid female face appeared in the gap.

“Excuse me, sir, is it alright if I sit here?”

In less than half a second, Tom assessed her. She was around his age and rather plain, yet her use of the word _sir_sent a spike of arousal through him. “Of course.”

She averted her eyes and grinned, taking the seat across from him. He looked out the window at the afternoon sunlight peeking through the factories. The light was dim enough to allow a slight reflection in the glass, in which Tom could see the girl glancing at him every so often. He kept his face blank, stifling a smirk as he recalled all the silly girls vying for his attention lately. This one, Anna the muggle, Walburga Black, Lysandra Bell. No chance of sexual frustration anytime soon—however, now was not the time for playing with toys. His horcruxes took precedence.

He glanced at the Gaunt ring on his finger before turning to the newspaper. The muggle rags circulated the same three ugly mugs on rotation: Churchill, Hitler, and Stalin. Today it was Churchill, lamenting the recent British defeat by the Germans. Tom read the article through, but the rest were dreadfully boring, so he turned back to the window. Now the buildings had given way to the horizon. It would be dark by the time he arrived in Greater Hangleton—no matter. He had money for lodging, thanks to that muggle fool at King’s Cross.

A bit later, the trolley came around and Tom requested a cup of tea for himself and the muggle girl, giving her a smile as she fell over herself thanking him.

“Golly, you’re so kind,” she gushed. “My name’s Elizabeth, by the way. Where are you headed?”

Tom told her and thus was stuck in menial conversation. At least it was a distraction from the intense boredom. Fortunately, she got off at the next stop, leaving him in peace for the remaining half-hour. He realized his heart was speeding up and his hands growing clammier as the train chugged on.

Stop being ridiculous, he scolded himself, no need to be nervous. But he knew the real cause, which was visiting the Gaunt shack again. It was empty, with Marvolo dead and Morfin in Azkaban, though not entirely. _She _was there, her essence. The filthy room she slept in, the woods she’d pursued his useless father in—the secondhand memory of Merope would pull at Tom.

“No matter,” he muttered as the train slowed, the bold print of GREATER HANGLETON on the sign catching his eye through the window. Tom stood, stretched, and stepped off the train, breathing in air much fresher than in London.

He was the only one on the platform—the other passengers’ destinations were farther north. Fingering the ring again, he stood on the edge of the platform, in no hurry. Spread below him were grassy fields sprawling over a valley with clusters of trees here and there, interrupted by the outskirts of Greater Hangleton.

Just for a moment, Tom allowed himself to imagine the platform as a balcony of a castle, maybe Hogwarts, maybe a different one. He’d heard of Grindelwald’s grand speeches, where many wizards were captivated by his words. He’d seen pictures of Hitler’s rallies where soldiers marched in unison, stamping on the ground to remind everyone in the vicinity who was in control.

And Tom was superior to them. They might have been older, even wiser, but one was a muggle and the other simply not as ruthless as Tom in his quest for supremacy. They’d earned notoriety, but their names would not be spoken of with the same awe and fear as Lord Voldemort. The ones who didn’t understand true power would be afraid to even speak it.

However, that was in the future. Now was the time for his horcruxes. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers and smiling to himself, Tom walked toward the stairs leading him out of the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A longer, plottier fic following Tom in his seventh year (among some others) is in the works! ;)


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